Evelyn Hope
I.
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,
Beginning
to
die
too,
in
the
glass;
Little
has
yet
been
changed,
I
think:
The
shutters
are
shut,
no
light
may
pass
Save
two
long
rays
thro'
the
hinge's
chink.
II.
Sixteen
years
old,
when
she
died!
Perhaps
she
had
scarcely
heard
my
name;
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,—-
And
the
sweet
white
brow
is
all
of
her.
III.
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—-
And,
just
because
I
was
thrice
as
old
And
our
paths
in
the
world
diverged
so
wide,
Each
was
nought
to
each,
must
I
be
told?
We
were
fellow
mortals,
nought
beside?
IV.
No,
indeed!
for
God
above
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:
Much
is
to
learn,
much
to
forget
Ere
the
time
be
come
for
taking
you.
V.
But
the
time
will
come,—-at
last
it
will,
When,
Evelyn
Hope,
what
meant
(I
shall
say)
In
the
lower
earth,
in
the
years
long
still,
That
body
and
soul
so
pure
and
gay?
Why
your
hair
was
amber,
I
shall
divine,
And
your
mouth
of
your
own
geranium's
red—-
And
what
you
would
do
with
me,
in
fine,
In
the
new
life
come
in
the
old
one's
stead.
VI.
I
have
lived
(I
shall
say)
so
much
since
then,
Given
up
myself
so
many
times,
Gained
me
the
gains
of
various
men,
Ransacked
the
ages,
spoiled
the
climes;
Yet
one
thing,
one,
in
my
soul's
full
scope,
Either
I
missed
or
itself
missed
me:
And
I
want
and
find
you,
Evelyn
Hope!
What
is
the
issue?
let
us
see!
VII.
I
loved
you,
Evelyn,
all
the
while.
My
heart
seemed
full
as
it
could
hold?
There
was
place
and
to
spare
for
the
frank
young
smile,
And
the
red
young
mouth,
and
the
hair's
young
gold.
So,
hush,—-I
will
give
you
this
leaf
to
keep:
See,
I
shut
it
inside
the
sweet
cold
hand!
There,
that
is
our
secret:
go
to
sleep!
You
will
wake,
and
remember,
and
understand.
Robert Browning
Robert Browning (born May 7, 1812, London—died Dec. 12, 1889, Venice) major English poet of the Victorian age, noted for his mastery of dramatic monologue and psychological portraiture. His most noted work was The Ring and the Book (1868–69), the story of a Roman murder trial in 12 books. Through all the vicissitudes of critical reputation, however, Browning’s major contribution to the canon of children’s literature, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” has retained its popular audience. At the time of his death in 1889, he was one of the most popular poets in England.