(A poem by Emile Bronte)
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!