We need to carry on, keep our chins up, and all that. In spite of – because of – the devastation of our culture and the decomposition of our Republic, we must, as I said in America Needs a Renaissance, be brave. In that spirit, I entered Thanksgiving week determined to count my own — and our collective — American blessings, and to give thanks.
I must confess, though, that my feelings overrode my intentions. I found myself less thankful than usual, preoccupied with our country’s fall from grace, indignant that we would willingly surrender our noble experiment in self-government, overwhelmed by ceaseless, intemperate change, and very, very worried. A William Wordsworth poem popped into my mind, expressing how I felt:
The world is too much with us; late and soon.
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers.
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
Next week – I guess that starts tomorrow – I’ll “crack a smile,” as my beloved British grandmother used to instruct me. I have one more day to fret and stew.