W H Auden

Horae Canonicae: Terce

After shaking paws with his dog, (Whose bark would tell the world that he is always kind,) The hangman sets off briskly over the heath; He does not know yet who will be provided To do the high works of Justice with: Gently closing the door of his wife's bedroom, (Today she has one of her headaches) With a sigh the judge descends his marble stair; He does not know by what sentence He will apply on earth the Law that rules the stars: And the poet, taking a breather Round his garden before starting his eclogue, Does not know whose Truth he will tell. Sprites of hearth and store-room, godlings Of professional mysteries, the Big Ones Who can annihilate a city, Cannot be bothered with this moment: we are left, Each to his secret cult, now each of us Prays to an image of his image of himself: 'Let me get through this coming day Without a dressing down from a superior, Being worsted in a repartee, Or behaving like an ass in front of the girls; Let something exciting happen, Let me find a lucky coin on a sidewalk. Let me hear a new funny story. ' At this hour we all might be anyone: It is only our victim who is without a wish Who knows already (that is what We can never forgive. If he knows the answers, Then why are we here, why is there even dust? ) Knows already that, in fact, our prayers are heard, That not one of us will slip up, That the machinery of our world will function Without a hitch, that today, for once, There will be no squabbling on Mount Olympus, No Chthonian mutters of unrest, But no other miracle, knows that by sundown We shall have had a good Friday.