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 say, 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 Bronte


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