The Poet's Hope.

The wild hope of the poet finds a home
In the immaterial, as he clothes himself
In visionary raiment far off, where
The echoes of eternity are heard
And the immortal entities appear.

by Robert Crawford.

Fragment: Such Hope, As Is The Sick Despair Of Good

Such hope, as is the sick despair of good,
Such fear, as is the certainty of ill,
Such doubt, as is pale Expectation’s food
Turned while she tastes to poison, when the will
Is powerless, and the spirit...

by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Could Hope Inspect Her Basis

Could Hope inspect her Basis
Her Craft were done -
Has a fictitious Charter
Or it has none -

Balked in the vastest instance
But to renew -
Felled by but one assassin -
Prosperity -

by Emily Dickinson.

Expectation—is Contentment


Expectation—is Contentment—
But Satiety—Conviction
Of Necessity

Of an Austere trait in Pleasure—
Good, without alarm
Is a too established Fortune—
Danger—deepens Sum—

by Emily Dickinson.

Within the world of every man's desire
Two things have power to lift the soul above:
The first is Work, who dons a mean attire;
The other, Love, whose raiment is of fire.
Their child is Hope, and we the heirs thereof.

by Madison Julius Cawein.

If Hope Grew On A Bush

If hope grew on a bush,
And joy grew on a tree,
What a nosegay for the plucking
There would be!
But oh! in windy autumn,
When frail flowers wither,
What should we do for hope and joy,
Fading together?

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

Hope is a strange invention

Hope is a strange invention -
A Patent of the Heart -
In unremitting action
Yet never wearing out -

Of this electric Adjunct
Not anything is known
But its unique momentum
Embellish all we own -

by Emily Dickinson.

When Hope But Made Tranquillity Be Felt (Fragment)

When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt--
A Flight of Hopes for ever on the wing
But made Tranquillity a conscious Thing--
And wheeling round and round in sportive coil
Fann'd the calm air upon the brow of Toil--

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

March is the Month of Expectation

March is the Month of Expectation.
The things we do not know -
The Persons of prognostication
Are coming now -
We try to show becoming firmness -
But pompous Joy
Betrays us, as his first Betrothal
Betrays a Boy.

by Emily Dickinson.

Hope And Patience

An unborn bird lies crumpled and curled,
A-dreaming of the world.

Round it, for castle-wall, a shell
Is guarding it well.

is the bird with its dim sensations;
The shell that keeps it alive is

by George MacDonald.

The Service Without Hope


The Service without Hope—
Is tenderest, I think—
Because 'tis unsustained
By stint—Rewarded Work—

Has impetus of Gain—
And impetus of Goal—
There is no Diligence like that
That knows not an Until—

by Emily Dickinson.

When I was a little boy,
I followed hope and slighted joy.
Now my wit has larger scope,
I clutch at joy and heed not hope.

At least that doctrine I profess,
For there I know lies happiness;
But hope, for all the shifts I try,
Will be my sovereign till I die.

by Gamaliel Bradford.

Hope Is Like A Harebell Trembling From Its Birth

Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth,
Love is like a rose the joy of all the earth;
Faith is like a lily lifted high and white,
Love is like a lovely rose the world's delight;
Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth,
But the rose with all its thorns excels them both.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

Hope For Ingersoll

Of Ingersoll we're justly proud,
Though o'er it hath hung a cloud;
It was heavy, dark, profound,
Weighing o'er ten thousand pound.
But now the clouds do disappear,
And the sun is shining clear-
Now, with pleasure, we do behold,
Our railroad bonds are good as gold.
The people now need not despair,
But thank our Council and our Mayor.

by James McIntyre.

At summer eve, when heaven's aerial bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky?
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? -
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.

by Thomas Campbell.

Too bright the glance your wishes sent
Into the future's day,
Too sweet the trust on which you leant,
Not to give way.
Oh ever in this treacherous world,
If you your peace would prize,
Keep Expectation's quick wings furled,
And veil Hope's eyes.
Sad though it be to lose these gay
Phantoms at least of bliss;
To watch them slowly fade away
Is worse than this.

by Frances Anne Kemble.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

'Hope' is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

by Emily Dickinson.

Now Let No Charitable Hope

Now let no charitable hope
Confuse my mind with images
Of eagle and of antelope:
I am by nature none of these.

I was, being human, born alone;
I am, being woman, hard beset;
I live by squeezing from a stone
What little nourishment I get.

In masks outrageous and austere
The years go by in single file;
But none has merited my fear,
And none has quite escaped my smile.

by Elinor Morton Wylie.

Stanzas For Music: They Say That Hope Is Happiness

They say that Hope is happiness;
But genuine Love must prize the past,
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless:
They rose the first--they set the last;

And all that Memory loves the most
Was once our only Hope to be,
And all that Hope adored and lost
Hath melted into Memory.

Alas it is delusion all:
The future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall,
Nor dare we think on what we are.

by George Gordon Byron.

We speak with the lip, and we dream in the soul,
Of some better and fairer day;
And our days, the meanwhile, to that golden goal
Are gliding and sliding away.
Now the world becomes old, now again it is young,
But "The better" 's forever the word on the tongue.

At the threshold of life hope leads us in--
Hope plays round the mirthful boy;
Though the best of its charms may with youth begin,
Yet for age it reserves its toy.

by Friedrich Schiller.

Oh, They Have Robbed Me Of The Hope

Oh, they have robbed me of the hope
My spirit held so dear;
They will not let me hear that voice
My soul delights to hear.
They will not let me see that face
I so delight to see;
And they have taken all thy smiles,
And all thy love from me.

Well, let them seize on all they can: --
One treasure still is mine, --
A heart that loves to think on thee,
And feels the worth of thine.

by Anne Brontë.

Now That The Sunset Of Hope….

Now that the sunset of hope for my life
has sand and colourless come,
toward my dim dwelling, dismantled and chill,
let us turn step by step:
for the white light of the day
with its gladness does not embitter me more:

Contented the ill-fated bird seeks its black nest;
well the wild beast to its hidden cave retreats;
the dead to the grave; the wretched to oblivion,
and to its wilderness my soul.

Translated by Kate Flores.

by Rosalia de Castro.

Twin stars, aloft in ether clear,
Around each other roll alway,
Within one common atmosphere
Of their own mutual light and day.

And myriad happy eyes are bent
Upon their changeless love alway;
As, strengthened by their one intent,
They pour the flood of life and day.

So we through this world's waning night
May, hand in hand, pursue our way;
Shed round us order, love, and light,
And shine unto the perfect day.


by Charles Kingsley.

Hope new born one pleasant morn
Died at even;
Hope dead lives nevermore.
No, not in heaven.

If his shroud were but a cloud
To weep itself away;
Or were he buried underground
To sprout some day!
But dead and gone is dead and gone
Vainly wept upon.

Nought we place above his face
To mark the spot,
But it shows a barren place
In our lot.
Hope has birth no more on earth
Morn or even;
Hope dead lives nevermore,
No, not in heaven.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

Hope on, dear Heart, and you will see
The walls of worry fade and flee;
And sane of soul and sound of mind,
You 'll go your way of life and find
The paths, once barren, suddenly
In blossom; and from Arcady
The summer wind blow sweet and kind
Hope on, dear Heart.
Think what it 'd mean to you and me
This life if Hope should cease to be!
If Hope should die what doubts would blind!
What black despairs go unconfined!
What sorrows weight us utterly!
Hope on, dear Heart!

by Madison Julius Cawein.

A Great Hope Fell

A great Hope fell
You heard no noise
The Ruin was within
Oh cunning wreck that told no tale
And let no Witness in

The mind was built for mighty Freight
For dread occasion planned
How often foundering at Sea
Ostensibly, on Land

A not admitting of the wound
Until it grew so wide
That all my Life had entered it
And there were troughs beside

A closing of the simple lid
That opened to the sun
Until the tender Carpenter
Perpetual nail it down -

by Emily Dickinson.

A Pearl Necklace

Go, cold white pearls, with your luring eyes,
The woman is waiting who longs to win
But the rainbow light that within you lies,
But the soft cool touch of your satin skin.
You are undefiled, and the price of sin
Has passed you by, what the heart denies
Can your whiteness, fettered and bound within
This necklet's space, ever realise ?
You were snatched away from the deep, sad sea,
From the Mother's womb to the miser's pile;
You are bartered now for a phantasy,
For the hopeless hope in a woman's smile.

by Radclyffe Hall.

Parody on Lord Strangford's 'Just like Love.'
JUST like Hope is yonder bow,
That from the center bends so low,
Where bright prismatic colours shew
How gems of heavenly radiance glow,
Just like Hope !
Yet if, to the illusion new,
The pilgrim should the arch pursue,
Farther and farther from his view,
It flies; then melts in chilling dew,
Just like Hope !

Ye fade, ethereal hues ! for ever,
While, cold Reason, thy endeavour
Sooths not that sad heart, which never
Glows with Hope.

by Charlotte Smith.

The Rose Of Hope

The rose of Hope, how rich and red
It blooms, and will bloom on, 't is said,
Since Eve, in Eden days gone by,
Plucked it on Adam's heart to lie,
When out of Paradise they fled,
With Sorrow and o'erwhelming Dread,
It was this flower that comforted,
This Rose of Hope, that can not die.
God's Rose of Hope.
When darkness comes, and you are led
To think that Hope at last is dead,
Take down your Bible; read; and try
To see the light; and by and by
Hope's rose will lift again its head
God's Rose of Hope.

by Madison Julius Cawein.

I think through the long, long evenings,
Such thoughts of intensest pain,
And I hope and watch for her coming,
But I hope and watch in vain,
My life is a long, long journey
Over a barren moor,
With nought but my own dark shadow
Hastening on before.

I'm weary of all this watching,
Aweary of life and thought;
For there's little hope in the distance,
And for peace-I know it not!
Oh, why must we think and shudder,
And shudder and think again?
When life's but a dance of shadows
Haunting a barren plain!

by Charles Sangster.

Had I Presumed To Hope


Had I presumed to hope—
The loss had been to Me
A Value—for the Greatness' Sake—
As Giants—gone away—

Had I presumed to gain
A Favor so remote—
The failure but confirm the Grace
In further Infinite—

'Tis failure—not of Hope—
But Confident Despair—
Advancing on Celestial Lists—
With faint—Terrestial power—

'Tis Honor—though I die—
For That no Man obtain
Till He be justified by Death—
This—is the Second Gain—

by Emily Dickinson.

The Instinct Of Hope

Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?
'Tis nature's prophesy that such will be,
And everything seems struggling to explain
The close sealed volume of its mystery.
Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
As seeming anxious of eternity,
To meet that calm and find a resting place.
E'en the small violet feels a future power
And waits each year renewing blooms to bring,
And surely man is no inferior flower
To die unworthy of a second spring?

by John Clare.

Reverence Waking Hope

A power is on me, and my soul must speak
To thee, thou grey, grey man, whom I behold
With those white-headed children. I am bold
To commune with thy setting, and to wreak
My doubts on thy grey hair; for I would seek
Thee in that other world, but I am told
Thou goest elsewhere and wilt never hold
Thy head so high as now. Oh I were weak,
Weak even to despair, could I forego
The tender vision which will give somehow
Thee standing brightly one day even as now!
Thou art a very grey old man, and so
I may not pass thee darkly, but bestow
A look of reverence on thy wrinkled brow.

by George MacDonald.

Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. Proverbs, XIII,12

Where is the perfect Vision
The years have watched to see?
Why do the footsteps falter
That should be swift to me?
Days, days, and days of waiting,
And days that linger still
Till the heart aches to be breaking-
And night is on the Hill.

Where, while I listen, listen
Thro hours that go and come
And silence unbroken,
The Voice that yet is dumb?
The one Voice that could bring me,
Triumphant, rapturous, clear-
O God! O God! - the message
My soul is sick to hear!

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

Hope Holds To Christ

. . . . . . . .
Hope holds to Christ the mind’s own mirror out
To take His lovely likeness more and more.
It will not well, so she would bring about
An ever brighter burnish than before
And turns to wash it from her welling eyes
And breathes the blots off all with sighs on sighs.
Her glass is blest but she as good as blind
Holds till hand aches and wonders what is there;
Her glass drinks light, she darkles down behind,
All of her glorious gainings unaware.
. . . . . . . .
I told you that she turned her mirror dim
Betweenwhiles, but she sees herself not Him.
. . . . . . . .

by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Sonnet Xxv: False Hope Prolongs

False hope prolongs my ever certain grief,
Trait'rous to me and faithful to my love;
A thousand times it promis'd me relief,
Yet never any true effect I prove.
Oft when I find in her no truth at all,
I banish her and blame her treachery;
Yet soon again I must her back recall,
As one that dies without her company.
Thus often as I chase my hope from me,
Straight way she hastes her unto Delia's eyes;
Fed with some pleasing look there shall she be,
And so sent back, and thus my fortune lies.
Looks feed my Hope, Hope fosters me in vain;
Hopes are unsure, when certain is my pain.

by Samuel Daniel.

O wistful eyes that haunt the gloom of sleep,
Are you my own, remembered from the night
I sat before my glass in dumb affright
And saw my cowering soul afraid to weep?
Perhaps you are his, foreshadowed, when I creep
Behind him and confess the hopeless blight
That wilts the bloom of our supreme delight
The breath of horror from the unknown deep.
Eyes that have never seen a mother's face,
Have you no mercy that you stare and stare,
Although I never felt the hope I slew?
Wide eyes, but when I kneel to God for grace,
Your steadfast pity deepens my despair;
The darkness I desire is full of you.

by John Le Gay Brereton.

Sonnet Xvi: Delusive Hope

Delusive Hope! more transient than the ray
That leads pale twilight to her dusky bed,
O'er woodland glen, or breezy mountain's head,
Ling'ring to catch the parting sigh of day.
Hence with thy visionary charms, away!
Nor o'er my path the flow'rs of fancy spread;
Thy airy dreams on peaceful pillows shed,
And weave for thoughtless brows, a garland gay.
Farewell low vallies; dizzy cliffs, farewell!
Small vagrant rills that murmur as ye flow:
Dark bosom'd labyrinth and thorny dell;
The task be mine all pleasures to forego;
To hide, where meditation loves to dwell,
And feed my soul, with luxury of woe!

by Mary Darby Robinson.

It befell me on a day-
Long ago; ah, long ago!
When my life was in its May,
In the May-month of the year.
All the orchards were like snow
With pink-flushes here and there;
And a bird sang building near-
And a bird sang far away,
Where the early twilight lay.

Long ago; ah, long ago!
Youth’s sweet May passed quite away-
May that never more is May.
And I hear the nightingale
Singing far adown the vale
Where the early twilight lies:
Singing sad, and sweet, and strong;
And I wonder if the song
May be heard in Paradise!

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

Sonnet Xliii: The Unhappy Exile

The unhappy exile, whom his fates confine
To the bleak coast of some unfriendly isle,
Cold, barren, desart, where no harvests smile,
But thirst and hunger on the rocks repine;
When, from some promontory's fearful brow,
Sun after sun he hopeless sees decline
In the broad shipless sea—perhaps may know
Such heartless pain, such blank despair as mine;
And, if a flattering cloud appears to show
The fancied semblance of a distant sail,
Then melts away—anew his spirits fail,
While the lost hope but aggravates his woe!
Ah! so for me delusive Fancy toils,
Then, from contrasted truth—my feeble soul recoils.

by Charlotte Smith.