  Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Little has yet been changed, I think; The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;10 It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares—15 And the sweet white brow is all of her. Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew—20 And just because I was thrice as old And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow mortals, naught beside? No, indeed! for God above25 Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love; I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few;30 Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. |
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