In politics, as in poetry, it is sometimes true that it is

Hear now the words of Lawrence Summers, which echo as though spoken from the lips of the oracles of old: “In politics, as in poetry, it is sometimes true that it is darkest before dawn.” This phrase is not a mere flourish of rhetoric, but a truth forged from the long memory of human struggle. It speaks to the rhythm of life itself, to the way despair often deepens before deliverance, and how the human spirit, whether in the council of nations or in the solitary chamber of the poet’s heart, must endure the shadows to witness the rising of light.

The darkest before dawn is a phrase of the ancients as well as the moderns, for it is drawn from the pattern of the cosmos. Night grows blackest before the first light breaks, and so too does the soul of a people bend low before it rises strong again. In politics, this means that when nations seem divided, when injustice reigns unchecked, when hope flickers like a dying flame—it is then, paradoxically, that the seeds of renewal lie hidden, waiting to sprout with the first rays of change. In poetry, it is the same: the poet must wander through silence, confusion, even despair, before words arrive as dawn upon the tongue.

Consider the example of Abraham Lincoln, who faced the Union’s darkest hour. The Civil War tore his nation apart, and at its height, all seemed lost. Brothers slew brothers, the land itself wept with blood, and even Lincoln confessed the weight of hopelessness in his private writings. Yet from that darkness emerged a dawn: the preservation of the Union, the abolition of slavery, and a rebirth of freedom that shone far brighter than before. It was not despite the darkness, but through it, that the dawn was made possible. So Summers’ words remind us: despair may herald renewal.

In the realm of poetry, too, this truth has shown itself. Think of Dante, who entered the depths of Hell, where all was shadow and suffering, before ascending through Purgatory to behold the divine light. His journey is both literal and symbolic: no vision of Paradise is granted without first treading the darkest path. The poet, like the statesman, must not fear the night, for it is the necessary passage toward dawn. Darkness is the crucible; dawn is the reward.

This teaching carries a heroic charge for our lives. When you feel weighed down by strife, when your community seems lost to quarrels, when your own heart lies heavy with doubt—do not surrender. Remember that the night is always deepest before the break of day. The shadows you endure may be the sign that light is near. Indeed, it is often when we believe ourselves most forsaken that Providence is working silently, preparing the way for transformation.

What, then, is the lesson? To persevere. To trust that the rhythms of history, like the cycles of the heavens, bend toward renewal. In times of politics, work faithfully, even when corruption seems immovable, for truth has a way of reawakening. In times of poetry, or in personal despair, write, speak, or labor still, even when your words feel lifeless, for inspiration returns to those who endure. To live in this way is to walk in step with the eternal pattern of night and dawn.

And so I say to you: cultivate endurance. When you see darkness, do not shrink away, but stand upright and let your courage be as a lamp in the night. Join with others, for no one faces midnight alone, and together await the morning with steadfast hearts. Keep faith, for history testifies again and again that light follows shadow, and dawn follows the darkest night. This is the wisdom of Summers, and of the ancients: in politics, in poetry, and in life itself—it is truly darkest before dawn.