hope...by emily jane bronte
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 away she turned her face away!
like a 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!
No comments:
Post a Comment