'Mariana in the South' by J.W. WaterhouseDreaming, 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.