The Pansy and the Prayer-Book

Following across the moors a sound of bells,
We found a church, the smallest that could be,
Hid in a tamarisk-grove beside the sea,
And graves of shipwreck'd men set round with shells.
We enter'd when the prayers were almost done:
The little children nodded on their knees,
The preacher's voice was drown'd in hum of bees
That danced about the lectern in the sun.

Awhile we knelt I let a pansy glide
Between her sweet grave face and open book,
And whisper'd as she turn'd with chiding look —
'Heaven has not will'd, dear heart, that aught divide
Love pure as ours, nor blames if thought of me
Come like this flower between thy God and thee,'