Well, so that is that. Now we must dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes --
Some have got broken --
And carrying them up to the attic. . . .
The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory,
And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now
Be very far off. . . .
In the meantime there are bills to be paid,
Machines to keep in repair,
Irregular verbs to learn,
The Time Being to redeem from insignificance.
The happy morning is over,
The night of agony still to come . . .
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes --
Some have got broken --
And carrying them up to the attic. . . .
The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory,
And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now
Be very far off. . . .
In the meantime there are bills to be paid,
Machines to keep in repair,
Irregular verbs to learn,
The Time Being to redeem from insignificance.
The happy morning is over,
The night of agony still to come . . .
From his long poem, "For The Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio," which was published in 1944.
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| W. H. Auden |
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This is when it pays to be Jewish. No Christmas = no post-Christmas letdown.
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