Everything sublime is as difficult as it is rare. Baruch Spinoza

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Poetry

A person who has not done one half his day's work by ten o'clock, runs a chance of leaving the other half undone.

HOPE

by: Emily Brontë (1818-1848)

      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!

3 comments:

  1. What a lovely poem and just what I needed to hear this afternoon : )

    Thanks for stopping by my place!

    Ash

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  2. O.K I admit it; I love *poetry to slit your wrists to.*

    I'd rather this than Ted Hughes with all his *nature red in tooth & claw* stuff that only gives me nightmares & an upset tum~tum. :)

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  3. The title is misleading isn't it. I first looked at it because of the title and then thought, oh well, this will do!

    Ashley, you have been missed. : )

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I really appreciate the concept and sentiment behind awards, but I cannot participate in them anymore. I have too may and I have not got the time to devote to participating properly. To all who have honored me, I am grateful but I don't have seven more things to tell anyone about myself! And I'm a terrible passer-oner.