
She’d have naught of silvery turnings like fish,
The Celtic knot of wedded, bedded love.
She stole away to the Arans, met a man
Not man but fearsome messenger of wish
And promises; the angel gave a shove
That slung her sideways, scotched all prior plan
And launched her on a quest for nine white deer
In a glade with streams that brimmed with watercress . . .
And there made church and convent, hives and mead,
This blessed, this raucous lady chanticleer
Announcing sun to villagers, this abbess
Who routed cattle thieves with honeybees
And cured black-hearted plague—a flight of laud
To she who chased the honeyed gold of God.
—Marly Youmans
Give the National Endowment for the Arts Back to the Public
For decades, Americans have become increasingly alienated from the American arts establishment. The main source for their…
Jane Austen Against the Smartphone
On this day in 1813, England’s most beloved novel was published. Pride and Prejudice has become the…
Unseen Skies
If you have been following this column for a while, you know I love the very idea…