(Lt. William Charles Wynn, 1873-1916, 4th Baron Newborough, whose grave overlooks the Vale of Ffestiniog in North Wales)
I’d perch beside your gravestone years ago,
a boy who thought you old at forty-three.
I knew you loved this quiet place, like me.
We’d gaze towards Maentwrog far below,
kindred spirits, and I’d talk to you.
Sometimes I asked what it was like to die”
were you afraid? You never did reply,
and silence rested lightly on us two.
These days the past is nearer, so I came
to our remembered refuge on the hill,
expecting change yet finding little there:
my village and the Moelwyns look the same,
Saint Michael’s Church commands the valley still”
but you, old friend, are younger than you were.
The Realities of Empire (ft. Nathan Pinkoski)
In this episode, Nathan Pinkoski joins R. R. Reno on The Editor’s Desk to talk about his…
Can Liberals Be Pronatalists?
Last year the United Nations Population Division predicted that global population will peak in approximately sixty years,…
From Little Rock to Minneapolis
Recent reports and images from Minneapolis reminded me of Little Rock in 1957, where attempts were made…