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Emily Brontė : Hope

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!

Emily Brontė (1818-1848)	P. 1846


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