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The Eve of St. Agnes—Green Bay, 2008
John Keats for Today’s Reader

Saint Agnes Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was,
The coach for all his sweaters was acold;
The team limped weakly through the frozen grass,
And bundled were the fans, a woolly fold.
Numb were the passer’s fingers as his hold
Embraced the ball and flung a mighty pass.
It flew like cannon from a warship old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven, without a death,
To the alert receiver, while his prayer he saith.

—A. Dulles, S.J.

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