this also is a picture.  But the next poem, also by Browning, is much more than a picture—­it is very profound indeed, simple as it looks.  An old man is sitting by the dead body of a young girl of about sixteen.  He tells us how he secretly loved her, as a father might love a daughter, as a brother might love a sister.  But he would have wished, if he had not been so old, and she so young, to love her as a husband.  He never could have her in this world, but why should he not hope for it in the future world?  He whispers into her dead ear his wish, and he puts a flower into her dead hand, thinking, “When she wakes up, in another life, she will see that flower, and remember what I said to her, and how much I loved her.”  That is the mere story.  But we must understand that the greatness of the love expressed in the poem is awakened by an ideal of innocence and sweetness and goodness, and the affection is of the soul—­that is to say, it is the love of beautiful character, not the love of a beautiful face only, that is expressed.

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 can 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? 
    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 you would do with me, in fine,
    In the new life come in the old one’s stead.