A new book argues that the West built its civilization on a reasonable faith. Will modern pathologies, from Marxism to...
This poem appears in the Fall 2019 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.
When the first flicker of year-fall catches
Running up in the trees, burning
The dead year down, the bright leaves turning, turning
Like flames in every once-green-gold clearing,
When the new-prickling wind now fetches
Cardboard creeps and white ghost-faces
From attics, basement boxes, all the dusty web-strung spaces,
And the world’s shadow-time is quickly nearing,
Then rush out, child, into the dark-done street,
The lightless fields, the black expanses,
To join the night parade, the dormer drifts, the dances
Of all the shifting shapes that once were men.
Set out! O let your youthful night-blood beat
With all the creeps and crooks, the haunts and haints,
Till nothing but the prayers of all the dawn-bright saints
Can sing your raging heart to rest again.
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