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THERE once stood such a queer
Little church in Turin, -
Long destroyed, as I fear.
Dim and quaint 't was within,
With its pictures, once bright,
And the curious panes
In its windows. The light,
As it passed, took their stains,
And their purples and reds
Like a glory were cast
On the garments and heads
Of the monks as they passed
To and fro. In the heat
Of a warm July day
I had taken a seat,
For a rest by the way,
On its steps; when there came
Toward the church, gray and bent,
Such a poor, weak, old dame
That I naturally went
To her aid. At the door
Hung a curtain of hides
Thick and stiff, studded o'er
With brass rivets besides.
This I raised until she
Should pass under. The crone,
With a grace that we see
In her country alone,
As she passed bowed her head,
Pressed her lips to my hand,
And impulsively said:
"May God bless you, and send
From his heaven above
One to hold back for you
Thus in kindness and love
The dark curtain of sin
That shuts from our view
All the brightness within!"
W. F. K.
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