HOPE

Emily Jane Bronte 1818-48

Hope was but a timid friend -

She sat without my 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 that frenzied pain - 

Stretched her wings and soared to heaven; 

Went - and ne'er returned again!

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