if i could know
That here about the place where last you played,—
Within this room, and yonder in the shade
Of branches low,—
Your spirit lingered, I would never go,
But evermore a hermit pace the round
Of sunny paths across this garden ground,
And o’er the fleckered lawn
Whereon your baby chariot was drawn,...
-
-
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...