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W H Auden - Horae Canonicae: Terce
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    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.
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