Spring 1943 • Vol. V No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1943 |

More Sonnets at Christmas

(Ten Years Later)       I Again the native hour lets down the locks Uncombed and black, but gray the bobbing beard; Ten years ago His eyes, fierve shuttlecocks, Pierced the close net of what I failed: I feared The belly-cold, the grave-clout, that betrayed Me slithering in the rift of cordial seas; Ten years is time enough to be dismayed By mummy Christ, head crammed between His knees. Suppose I take a flying fortress, stroke By stroke up to the frazzled sun to hear Sun-ghostlings whisper: Yes, the capital yoke— Remove it and there's not a ghost to fear This crucial day, whose decapitate joke Languidly winds into the inner ear.       II The day's at end and there's nowhere to go, Draw to the fire, even this fire is dying; Get up and once again politely lying Invite the ladies towards the mistletoe With greedy eyes that stare like an old crow. How pleasantly the holly wreaths did hang And how stuffed Santa did his reindeer clang Above the gol

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Jubilo

By Allen Tate

(Ten Years Later)       I Again the native hour lets down the locks Uncombed and black, but gray the bobbing beard; Ten years ago His eyes, fierve shuttlecocks, Pierced the close […]

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