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!

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