Before the sun blots the dew from the bud
and hardens the resin weeping from the tree,
and memories start darting in and out
like swallows in the eaves, before sleeves
fill with arms and the first doubt comes
and butterfly nets have caught us

beside the hillside sloping away
beside the river running to the sea;
before a single bell bursts forth brightly
and all the shadows shorten,
leave us an edge and your wet footprints
to make our way back to the night.

A Message from the Editors

Our past successes are owed to our greatest ambassadors: our readers. Our future rests on your support, as The New Criterion Editor Roger Kimball explains. Will you help us continue to bring our incisive review of the arts and culture to the next generation of readers?

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 34 Number 7, on page 24
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