Terce

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."

--from "Horae Canonicae," W. H. Auden