The town is half awake; the nave, the choir,

Are dark, and all is dim within, without,

But every chapel fringed with the devout,

Is bright with. February flowers of fire.

At Mass, a thousand years ago in Rome,

Thus Priest, thus Server at the altar bowed;

Thus knelt, thus blessed itself the kneeling crowd,

At Dawn, within the secret catacomb.

Thus shall they meet for Mass, until the day The glory of the world shall pass away.

And beauty far above all human reach.

And power, and wealth beyond all mortal price,

And glory that outsoars all thought, all speech,

Speak in the whispered words of sacrifice.

Maurice Baring.