We meet our griefs again when work is through
and do with words what little words can do.
A stranger weeps beside us through the night.
Beneath our pleasant sun, we never knew
the dark that hates the sky for being bright.
We thought to build a garden without rue,
to climb and, all-beloved, to reach the height.
Our sins were trifling, the false called true,
a petty disbelief in wrong and right.
For every sin we pay, but no sin drew
these hates. It is our virtue they requite.
Along the shore, the squabbling seabirds mew
at passing ships and wheel away in fright.
We meet our griefs again when work is through.
We do with words what little words can do.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
First Things is the antidote: literary excellence, timeless truths, and a fixed point of reference in a culture that has lost its bearings.
But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
Make your Fall Campaign gift now using the button below.
If you have any questions or would like more information, please contact Giovanni Del Piero, Director of the Editor’s Circle, at gdelpiero@firstthings.com or 212-627-1985.
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