America the Pitiful

The older I get the harder it is to accept the murder of children.  What kind of society doesn't take care of its kids, doing whatever it can to keep them safe?  The death of the little boy in Boston on Monday and the defeat of gun control measures last night have piled on top of each other, leaving me heartsick for all of us.  I keep thinking of John Crowe Ransom's poem "Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter," which captures the vitality of childhood abruptly cut off:

"There was such speed in her little body,   

And such lightness in her footfall,   

It is no wonder her brown study

Astonishes us all.

Her wars were bruited in our high window.   

We looked among orchard trees and beyond   

Where she took arms against her shadow,   

Or harried unto the pond

The lazy geese, like a snow cloud

Dripping their snow on the green grass,   

Tricking and stopping, sleepy and proud,   

Who cried in goose, Alas,

For the tireless heart within the little   

Lady with rod that made them rise

From their noon apple-dreams and scuttle   

Goose-fashion under the skies!

But now go the bells, and we are ready,   

In one house we are sternly stopped

To say we are vexed at her brown study,   

Lying so primly propped."

 

Vexed and astonished by the events of the week. What are we to make

of our callous country?