ened at the place
That sings of sweet Francesca's grace:
How reading of Fair Guinevere
And Launcelot that long gone year,
Her eyes into her lover's fell
And--there was nothing more to tell.
That day they op'ed that book no more:
Thenceforth they read a deeper lore.

Beneath the passage so divine,
Some woman's hand had traced a line,
And reverently 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.

I paused at th' door with a timid knock:
The People within were a silken flock--
By their scowls of pride it was plain to see
Salvation was not for the likes of me.

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 do