As a child, it was always
pure anticipation, the sense of something
pouring out of a constantly
self-filling source, readying itself solely
for our delight. Now I keep
the list running in my head of all
that is not yet done, might not be done without
my doing. Though gifts still beckon, so too
the slowly nagging sense of something
that must be filled, constantly, lest
there be no delight.
Both, perhaps, are needful: that I should come
to this like a gawking child, savouring
what is pure unabashed gift, and also
to know, in grown-up brain, what costs everything,
what pulls down to the imminent and immanent,
the bare facts of bills and dust,
and in this torn state to turn
to watch the Child rise, undeterred,
golden rest in His giving wings.
The Consolations of Writing 