To Denis Devlin <br /> <br />Again the native hour lets down the locks <br />Uncombed and black, but gray the bobbing beard; <br />Ten years ago His eyes, fierce shuttlecocks, <br />Pierced the close net of what I failed: I feared <br />The belly-cold, the grave-clout, that betrayed <br />Me dithering in the drift of cordial seas; <br />Ten years are time enough to be dismayed <br />By mummy Christ, head crammed between his knees. <br /> <br />Suppose I take an arrogant bomber, stroke <br />By stroke, up to the frazzled sun to hear <br />Sun-ghostlings whisper: Yes, the capital yoke- <br />Remove it and there's not a ghost to fear <br />This crucial day, whose decapitate joke <br />Languidly winds into the inner ear.<br /><br />Allen Tate<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/more-sonnets-at-christmas-i/
