Nature is too thin a screen;
the glory of the Omnipresent God
bursts through everywhere.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—
True Poems flee—
“I take a grim and gloomy pleasure in reminding my fellow hacks and hired drudges in the dreadful trade of journalism that the Christmas which is now over ought to go on for the remainder of the twelve days.
It ought to end on the Twelfth Night, on which occasion Shakespeare has himself assured us that we ought to be doing What we Will.
But one of the queerest things about our own topsy-turvy time is that we all hear such a vast amount about Christmas just before it comes, and suddenly hear nothing at all about it afterwards. My own trade, the tragic guild to which I have already alluded, is trained to begin prophesying Christmas somewhere about the beginning of autumn; and the prophecies about it are like prophecies about the Golden Age and the Day of Judgment combined.
Everybody writes about what a glorious Christmas we are going to have. Nobody, or next to nobody, ever writes about the Christmas we have just had. I am going to make myself an exasperating exception in this matter. I am going to plead for a longer period in which to find out what was really meant by Christmas; and a fuller consideration of what we have really found.”
~G.K. Chesterton: ‘Illustrated London News,’ Dec. 28, 1935.