The atheist can celebrate, but each
December’s hours are weak, before the feast
of incarnation; whence he wakes (oh beast!),
hung-over on the darkened morning’s beach.
A Christian — waiting, watching, full of trust —
himself takes up the opposite: the void
that Advent waits to fill is unalloyed.
For them a ball; for us, to wait. We must.
Then, having made our genuflection last,
— the duty that is requisite  — we’ll rise,
to greet the glorious God, and, I surmise,
receive Divinity’s embrace, who’ll blast:
“Let’s start the party, for this is the day
that I have made; rejoice now, as ye may!”

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