“Don’t look away,” we are told.

I disagree.

In our time, politics seems inescapable. There is good reason for this. Our country is in a terrible struggle for our democratic way of life as we have known it, as it was entrusted to us by our parents and grandparents and all the generations of Americans who came before us and built this place, this "land of the free and home of the brave.”

Many have scorned those words in recent decades, reflexively rejecting the very notion that we have ever been, or could be, that kind of nation. A pessimism, even a scorn for the American experiment in self-government became a habit of mind in some quarters of the left, and more recently, of the right. We taught ourselves to become disenchanted with the old promise of our republic.

Excavating the many sins and failures of one’s country is a healthy pursuit; it’s part of the work of justice. And justice comes far too slowly for far too many in America. But no country, no people, is without sins and failures. And the past year ought to have compelled us to recognize the unappreciated goodness, the freedoms, the civic fellowship, the decent way of life that we had achieved, as far as we had.

Of course, there was so much farther we had yet to travel in pursuit of the American dream. But we knew that; we all understood we were and remain far from being “a perfect union,” in the words of the preamble to our Constitution. But I always liked Barack Obama’s gerundial formulation, that Americans are constantly engaged in the great task of “perfecting our union.” An ongoing national adventure, a perpetual work in progress. To so many people around the world, that work was the wonder of America. That’s why so many came here; they wanted to become Americans, and join that adventure.

We are on the brink of losing all of that. Not from natural disaster or invasion by foreign enemy or economic collapse. From politics.

Politics makes an endless claim on us now—on our attention, our thoughts, our hearts. That claim can feel inescapable, and it is not healthy. To do the hard work of democracy, we need other sources of passion and reflection.

We need beauty.

I went for a long walk in the woods yesterday, here in Frederick, Maryland. We are having a proper winter in this corner of our country, as I’m sure many of you are, too. I love a good, cracking cold spell, and I was keen for a walk. It was about 20 degrees with a steady wind from the north and a foot of frozen snow that was both iced over and broken up by the few people who had come before me on the trail. Bit of a scramble at almost every step. But Rory, our three-year-old Irish Terrier, was with me, and she has a knack for getting me out of my own mind and drawing my attention to wherever we are, place and time.

The claim of beauty must be honored in our lives, even—especially—in these hard times. (Also, in Rory’s case, there is the claim of cuteness.)

Beauty is not an escape in times like these. It is sustenance. To do the hard work of democracy requires the nourishment of the world beyond politics. So look away. It’s good for you.

Poetry reminds us that attention itself can be an act of resistance, and that the beauty of words—rhythm, sound, insight—can also steady us for the days ahead.

This is one of the most beautiful poems I know. It’s by William Butler Yeats, the great Irish poet. It’s not straightforward; beauty often isn’t.

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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThe jester walked in the garden:The garden had fallen still;He bade his soul rise upwardAnd stand on her window-sill.

It rose in a straight blue garment,When owls began to call:It had grown wise-tongued by thinkingOf a quiet and light footfall;

But the young queen would not listen;She rose in her pale night-gown;She drew in the heavy casementAnd pushed the latches down.

He bade his heart go to her,When the owls called out no more;In a red and quivering garmentIt sang to her through the door.

It had grown sweet-tongued by dreamingOf a flutter of flower-like hair;But she took up her fan from the tableAnd waved it off on the air.

'I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,'I will send them to her and die’;And when the morning whitenedHe left them where she went by.

She laid them upon her bosom,Under a cloud of her hair,And her red lips sang them a love-songTill stars grew out of the air.

She opened her door and her window,And the heart and the soul came through,To her right hand came the red one,To her left hand came the blue.

They set up a noise like crickets,A chattering wise and sweet,And her hair was a folded flowerAnd the quiet of love in her feet.