Phyllis McGinley

POETRY: Twelfth Night by Phyllis McGinley

January 6, 2018

Down from the window take the withered holly. Feed the torn tissue to the literal blaze. Now, now at last are come the melancholy Anticlimactic days. Here in the light of morning, hard, unvarnished, Let us with haste dismantle the tired tree Of ornaments, a trifle chipped and tarnished, Pretend we do not see How all the rooms seem shabbier and meaner And the tired house a little less than snug. Fold up the tinsel. Run the vacuum cleaner Over the littered rug. Nothing is left. The postman passes by, now, Bearing no gifts, no kind or seasonal word. The icebox yields no wing, no nibbled thigh, now, From any holiday bird. Sharp in the streets the north wind plagues its betters While Christmas snow to gutters is consigned. Nothing remains [...]