Two-thousand years and more untouched I burned
In soil’s slow fire. On the beach
Above, ringed by thin, withered trees, the sky
Rang with the haunted shore bird’s screech.
The water’s face can make a door, and so
They bound my arms with fur, cut off my head,
Dropped me on cold and stony shore. Still young,
I was an offering to gods now dead
Themselves and silent through these many years.
The druids uttered words to lightly brush
The distant ears of gods. I bled the lake’s
White margins dark. Then came the weighted hush.
They caught me with a trowel and dusting brush
And pulled me softly from the earth’s brown sleep
To sit behind museum glass and glare,
Jawless and silent in the glass cube keep.
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.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Prime Rib of Unicorn
Of all the titles I’ve been tracking this year, the one I am most delighted to have…
The Real World of Francisco de Zurbarán
Throughout the summer, I visited the National Gallery in London at least once a week. This is…
Souls at Stake
As the realistic English novel was emerging in a glorious birth amid the intellectual and moral tumult…
