The Pilgrims of No Parish

(after the manner of Thomas Hardy)

They come by road, by rail, by lane,
Each Sabbath dawn, through mist or rain;
From distant towns, from scattered shires,
Drawn not by hearth, but altar fires.

Their prayers rise up, a moment shared,
Yet none recall who sat, who stared;
No hand extends when mass is done—
Each turns back home, alone, alone.

No gossip clings, no children play,
No stories weave from day to day;
The pews are filled, then swept of name,
A ghostly throng that leaves no claim.

And so the church, though never bare,
Holds voices lost to thinner air:
A fellowship that cannot stay,
For all have travelled far away.