Far beyond, far beyond,
Deeper than the glassy pond,
My shivering spirit sits and weeps
And never sleeps.
Like the autumn dove that grieves,
Darkly hid in dove-like leaves,
So I moan within a woe
None may know.
Not having children, carrying pain and disfigurement, exiled in London to further her literary career: we can begin to list the trials of Mary Webb, but like all of us, at times she bore a woe that none may know. May we trust that it will pass or that we will learn how to confine it or to tell someone about it.
And may we be ready to listen, trusting the Spirit to give us wisdom when we need it.