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! 

Added: Mar 14 2005 | Viewed: 2418 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Emily Bronte
Poem: Hope

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