Where are the Gods that used to walk the Weald,
Where are their golden limbs and fiery faces,
Divinities of river, tree and field,
The uncommon spirits of the common places?
Where are the gaudy Goddesses of Heaven?
Where are the old immortal sisterhood,
True, talismanic three, or nine, or seven,
Arch-arbiters of evil and of good?
They are dead, you say. Stone dead, you say again.
This wonderful, wide world belongs to men,
And men alone. Show me the bodies then?
I say they sleep. I say they sleep up there,
Inviolate and secret, free from care
For ever, in a better, purer air.
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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