How oft the word which we would gladly speakMight be, unto some darkly groping soul,The key to bid doubt's massive doors unroll,The free winds' breath upon the prisoner's cheek,Or. to the hungry heart, sweet pity's dole!We hurry on, nor know that they are near,As passed Evangeline the one so dear.
I shook myself; I was dreaming. As I went to bed the words of the eighth-grade class’s teacher, when the class got to Evangeline , kept echoing in my ears: “We’re coming to a long poem now, boys and girls. Now don’t be babies and start counting the pages.” I lay there like a baby, counting the pages over and over, counting the pages.Randall Jarrell
Oh. I like that very much. Evangeline... likes that too...