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!