Dreaming, she knew it was a dream: She felt he was and was not there. She woke: the babble of the stream Fell, and, without, the steady glare
Shrank one sick willow sere and small. The river-bed was dusty-white; And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall.
She whisper’d, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, ‘Sweet Mother, let me not here alone Live forgotten and die forlorn.’
And, rising, from her bosom drew Old letters, breathing of her worth, For ‘Love,’ they said, ‘must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth.’
An image seem’d to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say ‘But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore.’
‘O cruel heart,’ she changed her tone, ‘And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end to be left alone, To live forgotten, and die forlorn?’
From 'Mariana in the South' by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
A small congregation turned up this afternoon for the thirteenth monthly Mass. As bad luck would have it, it didn't happen. The Church was unlocked but no sign of celebrant, server, organisers. Fortunately, the sacristan happened to be on hand to confirm that a note awaited her saying that the Mass had been cancelled... Well, it's nice that someone knows what's going on.
Born: 8 May 1861, Received into the Catholic Church: 21 December 1896, Received into the Sodality of Our Lady: 22 December 1896, Entered Society of Jesus: 7 September 1900, Ordained Priest: 28 July 1900, Died 19 February 1933.