She walked into the church in early spring,
Upon her father’s arm a pretty picture . . .
—And in her dream she took a lover’s ring,
An emblem of delight and of conjecture.

Her life entire was like a letter home,
A letter which no other woman wrote.
Read it with love: the lover bears no name;
Her lineage lies golden on her throat.

A Message from the Editors

As a reader of our efforts, you have stood with us on the front lines in the battle for culture. Learn how your support contributes to our continued defense of truth.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 7 Number 10, on page 36
Copyright © 2022 The New Criterion |