My worn sails are lowered, flaked, and stowed below;
this prow may lift no more to the green wave’s rocking.
Though the wind blows fresh at daybreak and the beckoning
horizon draws taut my stays, I may not go.
Survivor of a hundred storms, brought home in tow,
moored to the outermost buoy, denied dry docking,
I lie condemned by a salvage agent’s ruthless reckoning
to be hauled on shore and broken up. But even so,
my Master yet may come for me, regird my timbering,
recruit a crew of hands, renew my planks and caulking,
reglobe my running lamps, set blazoned sails to my spars;
then shall I ride again on evening’s tide, remembering
how the gale’s song goes, on deck my Master walking,
Commander of the ocean seas, the winds, the stars.
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.
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