Hope | Emily Brontë

    Hope Was but a timid friend;
    She sat without the grated den,
    Watching how my fate would tend,
    Even as selfish-hearted men.

    She was cruel in her fear;
    Through the bars one dreary day,
    I looked out to see her there,
    And she turned her face away!

    Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
    Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
    She would sing while I was weeping;
    If I listened, she would cease.

    False she was, and unrelenting;
    When my last joys strewed the ground,
    Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
    Those sad relics scattered round;

    Hope, whose whisper would have given
    Balm to all my frenzied pain,
    Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
    Went, and ne'er returned again!


Photo: Chanan Greenblatt

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