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 through the hinge’s chink.

Sixteen years...