That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

Not the most festive of openings, but Christmas is about darkness as well as light, and the sonnet is in the key of bleak midwinter. We know roughly what year Christ was born – although, since it was before Herod died, it may have been a few years B.C. But about the month of his birth we know nothing. December 25 echoes the pre-Christian pagan festivals, embodying their hopes – of spring, rebirth, eternal life – in Christ’s coming. Yet the three magi, those strange Zoroastrian visitors, also brought myrrh, a perfumed embalming oil and a symbol of death, as one of their gifts.

Feasting acquires some of its savour from knowing it will not last, and neither will we. Midwinter is a reminder of this

Christmas is a time of doubt and even despair, its traditions our inherited response to the icy........

© The Spectator