You’d wonder now where all those saints have gone,
Those cowling round our calamitous days,
Broadest-backed for the narrowing of hope-
The widest shoulders to lean worlds upon;
All frantic, fretted, our unholy frays
That haled them, incensed, off the walls to cope
Fine, coarse, familiar habits, soutaned, veiled,
Surpliced, sandaled, paled, visioned, you know how-
Are we undone-now are the champions fled ?
O that those soaring Josephs up the nave,
Those sudden Gabriels might blaze the now
Of need-those Anthonys might find their bread ! Now, how it sounds we’re
talking in thin air
Or to ourselves-as if they weren’t all there !
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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