'tis the soul's August,
whose roots are tightly compact'd--
water stagnates and rots the soil.
Nothing seems to pass through it.
In dreamy night air does
it imagine,
a haze of soft rain,
to refresh the hell
of the hot day.
Autumnal glimpses
are found deep within,
deadening the murmuring
below.
And nothing sticks to it,
vanishing up like
morning dew.
The Feast of St Anne 2025
-
Come, all creation, let us praise the divinely wise Anna on cymbals and
with psalms, who from her womb gave birth to the divine mountain, and has
passed to...
7 hours ago
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