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Words: 14496 in 7 pages
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ently upon the spot Had laid a blue forget-me-not: A message sent across the years, Of Lovers' sighs and Lovers' tears: A messenger left there to tell They too had loved each other well. The centuries had glided by Since Love had heaved that tender sigh; The tiny spray that spoke her trust, Had like herself long turned to dust.
I felt a sudden sorrow stir My heart across the years for her, Who, reading how Francesca loved, Had found her heart so deeply moved: Who, hearing poor Francesca's moan, Had felt her sorrow as her own. I hope where e 'er her grave may be, Forget-me-nots bloom constantly: That somewhere in yon distant skies He who is Love hath heard her sighs: And her hath granted of His Grace, Ever to see her Lover's face.
THE NEEDLE'S EYE
They bade me come to the House of Prayer, They said I should find my Saviour there: I was wicked enough, God wot, at best, And weary enough to covet rest.
The Bishop was there in his lace and lawn, And the cassocked priest,--I saw him yawn,-- The rich and great and virtuous too, Stood smug and contented each in his pew.
The music was grand,--the service fine, The sermon was eloquent,--nigh divine. The subject was, Pride and the Pharisee, And the Publican, who was just like me.
I smote my breast in an empty pew, But an usher came and looked me through And bade me stand beside the door In the space reserved for the mean and poor.
I left the church in my rags and shame: In the dark without, One called my name. "They have turned me out as well," quoth He, "Take thou my hand and come fare with me.
"We may find the light by a narrow gate, The way is steep and rough and strait; But none will look if your clothes be poor, When you come at last to my Father's door."
I struggled on where 'er He led: The blood ran down from His hand so red! The blood ran down from His forehead torn. "'Tis naught," quoth He, "but the prick of a thorn!"
"You bleed," I cried, for my heart 'gan quail. "'Tis naught, 'tis naught but the print of a nail." "You limp in pain and your feet are sore." "Yea, yea," quoth He, "for the nails they were four."
"You are weary and faint and bent," I cried. "'Twas a load I bore up a mountain side." "The way is steep, and I faint." But He: "It was steeper far upon Calvary."
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