THE MESSAGE

An ancient tome came to my hands:

A tale of love in other lands:

Writ by a Master so divine,

The Love seems ever mine and thine.

The volume opened 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.