The Journey of the Magi

A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of year For a journey, and a long Journey; the ways deep and the weather Sharp, the very dead of winter.

And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the wet, and the feet From the heavy-laden pack, And it was evening reflections turned Upon a pillow of grief.

And the hour came for the train to stop, The night would escalate, sorrow misbegotten, In accusations tracked damp and fumbled, Yet together still mingling with wisdom. Together with my station, I pulled Blindly through a woods, and spoke my name. It was Christ, my King.

The long cry of those market-paved skies With memories green fields burning with leaves, And you learned to listen.
As we knew it: A moment prepared for The race across an unthrilled dawn.

And deep in dreams was buried regret, Travelled along with a rod of steps, Torn through rags soaked in ocean’s sponge
And taking you and I away toward the blessings, Tucked into a crown— The sins we carried long reflected, a glow, Creatures thawing between dark breath and skin.

• TS Eliot