I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer! ["Men and Women." 1856.] EVELYN HOPE. 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 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. 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 naught to each, must I be told? No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love; Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few; Ere the time be come for taking you. 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. I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes 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. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 1775. ["Works." 1846.] ONE year ago my path was green, There is a love that is to last When the hot days of youth are past: Such love did a sweet maid bestow One year ago. I took a leaflet from her braid And gave it to another maid. Love! broken should have been thy bow I love to hear that men are bound Have I, this moment, led thee from the beach My heavy eyes, and sometimes can attain I curse it present, I regret it past. Here, ever since you went abroad, If there be change, no change I see, I only walk our wonted road, The road is only walked by me. Yes; I forgot; a change there is; I catch at times, at times I miss, The sight, the tone, I know so well. Only two months since you stood here! Voices are harsher than they were, And tears are longer ere they dry. Little it interests me how Some insolent usurper now Divides your narrow chair; Little heed I whose hand is placed A time, a time there may have been Was brightened by your eyes. And dare you ask what you have done? The weak have taught the wise. The maid I love ne'er thought of me Amid the scenes of gaiety; But when her heart or mine sank low, Ah, then it was no longer so. From the slant palm she raised her head, And kissed the cheek whence youth had fled. Angels! some future day, for this, Give her as sweet and pure a kiss. Often I have heard it said When she kissed me once in play, Rubies were less bright than they, And less bright were those which shone In the palace of the sun. Will they be as bright again? Not if kissed by other men. |