I looked for it, low in the east,
Where it was scheduled to appear.
Good sightings of it were, I knew,
Rare in the northern hemisphere.
Cream-golden Saturn shone above me.
By imperceptible degrees
Orion climbed, tilted acutely,
Through nearby eucalyptus trees.
Despite the chill and damp, I worked
The focus wheel of my binocs
With the light touch a safecracker
Applies to combination locks.
Yet as dawn spread, I couldn’t find
The thing I sought. I felt bereft.
How many chances to observe it,
Given my age, did I have left?
Up blazed the sun, as if to roast
The lesser globe on which I stood.
It all but bellowed, “I’m a star!
I rock, and rule this neighborhood!”
Lost in its glare was Mercury,
Too swift and subtle for my eye.
Going inside, I left my slippers,
Drenched with dew, on the porch to dry.
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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