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By now, all’s wrong. In everyone there sleeps
A sense of life lived according to love.
To some it means the difference they could make
By loving others, but across most it sweeps
As all they might have done had they been loved.
That nothing cures. An immense slackening ache,
As when, thawing, the rigid landscape weeps,
Spreads slowly through with them – that, and the voice above
Saying Dear Child, and all time has disproved.

Philip Larkin, Faith Healing (extracted)

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