Always too eager for the future, we
  Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
  Something is always approaching; every day
  Till then we say,

  Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear
  Sparkling armada of promises draw near.
  How slow they are! And how much time they waste,
  Refusing to make haste!

  Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks
  Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks
  Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked,
  Each rope distinct,

  Flagged, and the figurehead wit golden tits
  Arching our way, it never anchors; it's
  No sooner present than it turns to past.
  Right to the last

  We think each one will heave to and unload
  All good into our lives, all we are owed
  For waiting so devoutly and so long.
  But we are wrong:

  Only one ship is seeking us, a black-
  Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back
  A huge and birdless silence. In her wake
  No waters breed or break.

Thank you caio for introducing me to Philip Larkin's work.