I planted snowdrops forty years ago
When I was fourteen; early March they drift
Across the garden, poking through the snow.
I see them springing, and my spirits lift.
I see them blooming sheltered by the hedge;
Some come up in the middle of the grass.
They linger by the fieldstones and allege
That Easter soon will follow Candlemas.
A squall of them blows by the maple tree
Now shorn of all its gold autumnal glory.
The snowdrops thrust themselves through the debris
And hint that spring will come, though dilatory.
These sturdy winter flowers quickly grow,
Their white buds burgeoning through Lenten snow.
—Mary-Patrice Woehling
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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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.
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