You needn’t be born a Bourbon
To dream your funereal deluge,
Some climactic climatic disturbance
To rain out the end of your reign.
A desultory drizzle of tears
Is the most that most of us get,
Precious precipitation
But scarcely the torrent we merit.
We’d prefer a proportionate downpour
But will settle for rills swelling
And basements portentously flooded—
Though even some frustrated faucets
Would do, a drop in the pressure,
Ice in the pipes of the world.
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
A Culture of Parricide
I learned a new word the other day: déploration. It’s the French, directly from the Latin, for “lament.”…
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…
