December 05, 2009

HOPE
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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 never returned again!

6 comments:

sri said...

very saddening!for the last thing to lose is hope.

khushi said...

this is a very sad poem :(

lena said...

sad indeed.. but i hope for the hope to be back :)

ash89 said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
ash89 said...

hope does get us out of very bad situations. This was a sad poem : (

trups said...

i hv nt heard frm u since a long time.i hope all is gud