The Eve of St. Agnes—Green Bay, 2008

The Eve of St. Agnes—Green Bay, 2008
John Keats for Today’s Reader

Saint Agnes Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was,
The coach for all his sweaters was acold;
The team limped weakly through the frozen grass,
And bundled were the fans, a woolly fold.
Numb were the passer’s fingers as his hold
Embraced the ball and flung a mighty pass.
It flew like cannon from a warship old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven, without a death,
To the alert receiver, while his prayer he saith.

—A. Dulles, S.J.