Philip Larkin — The horns of the morning

The horns of the morning Are blowing, are shining, The meadows are bright With the coldest dew; The dawn reassembles. Like the clash of gold cymbals The sky spreads its vans out The sun hangs in view. Here, where no love is, All that was hopeless And kept me from sleeping Is frail and unsure; For never so brilliant, Neither so silent Nor so unearthly, has Earth grown before.