But not only here. In an interview Larkin spoke about his reputation as a melancholy man, and protested that he thought he was rather funny, actually. But something besides humor redeems the gloom of Philip Larkin. His poetry is beautiful, which gives us deep and abiding pleasure, however melancholy a paraphrase may be. The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house. Doubtless the poem is deprived enough but if you don't walk out of the theater humming the tune, you don't read poetry. From The New Criterion Vol.