A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY PARABLE.
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Graves of the precious "missing," where no sound
Of tender weeping will be heard, where goes
No loving step of kindred. O, how flows
And yearns our thought to them! More holy ground
Of graves than this, we say, is that whose bound
Is secret till eternity disclose
Its sign.
But Nature knows her wilderness;
There are no" missing" in her numbered ways.
In her great heart is no forgetfulness.
Each grave she keeps she will adorn, caress.
We cannot lay such wreaths as Summer lays,
And all her days are Decoration Days!
Of tender weeping will be heard, where goes
No loving step of kindred. O, how flows
And yearns our thought to them! More holy ground
Of graves than this, we say, is that whose bound
Is secret till eternity disclose
Its sign.
But Nature knows her wilderness;
There are no" missing" in her numbered ways.
In her great heart is no forgetfulness.
Each grave she keeps she will adorn, caress.
We cannot lay such wreaths as Summer lays,
And all her days are Decoration Days!
A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY PARABLE.
HEN good Saint Louis reigned in France as king,And William, Bishop of Paris, ministering
To all the churches, kept them pure and glad,
There came one day a learned man, who had
Journeyed from distant provinces to find
His Bishop and unload his burdened mind.
Entering the Bishop's presence, he began
To speak: but sobs choked all his voice; tears ran
Like rain from out his eyes, and no words came
To tell his grief. Then said the Bishop:
"Shame
Not thyself so deeply, Master: no man
So sins but that the gracious Jesus can
