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? 
        We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

     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.

     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 would you 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,
        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!

     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.

* * * * *

     PROSPICE

     Fear death?—­to feel the fog in my throat,
          The mist in my face,
     When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
          I am nearing the place,
     The power of the night, the press of the storm,
          The post of the foe;
     Where he stands, the Arch-Fear in a visible form,
          Yet the strong man must go: 
     For the journey is done and the summit attained,
          And the barriers fall,
     Though a battle’s to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
          The reward of it all. 
     I was ever a fighter, so—­one fight more,
          The best and the last! 
     I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
          And bade me creep past. 
     No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
          The heroes of old,