The house where we were happy,
Perhaps it’s stranding still
On the wrong side of the railroad tracks
Half-way down the hill.
Perhaps new people live there
Who think the street name quaint,
and watch the dogwood petals shiver
Down like flakes of paint.
Perhaps they hold each other
When the train goes railing by,
Shaking up the window panes
And dressing down the sky.
And perhaps it strikes them ritch
When spring is making shift,
To find the bank is blooming pink
Where we had planted thrift.
Perhaps they reap our roses
In an antique jelly jar.
And maybe they are happy there,
And do not know they are.
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.
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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.
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