Though ill with cancer, I am here outdoors
To walk slow steps and feel the warmth of spring.
By chance, a nearby hermit thrush outpours
His ecstasy to live, to fly, to sing,
And daffodils hurl yellow at the sky
As if they too would venerate this day.
Trees point their buds toward me to testify
That life this time is surely here to stay.
Should this ill man resent spring’s revelries
And plead that apt decorum should be due?
No, I will join the season’s rhapsodies
And find a way to make myself brand new.
My body may be one grim cancer cell,
But joyful, I will sing “my soul is well.”
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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