December 05, 2009


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!


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