John Cowper Powys

THE HOPE I hold

The leering demon-days

Deride, and reason plays,

Snug as a raven on a gallows-tree,

Its ancient game with me,

Flapping its wings and lewdly gibbering,

“Life is a humorous thing!”

But on I fare, clutching—

It is not gold,

The hope I hold.

The hope I hold,

Delicate cruelty

Snatches at, passing by;

And like a vine-leaf, fallen from its place

Upon a tortured face,

Offers its fragrance to betray, sighs low,

“Life is a humorous show!”

But on I fare, clutching—

It is not gold,

The hope I hold.

The hope I hold

Nature herself with glee

Derides. And destiny

With evil goblin laughter indicates

The adamantine gates,

And with a maniac-chuckle rallies me,

“That way is closed, you see!”

But I fare on, clutching—

It is not gold,

The hope I hold.

O hope, whose face in madness I have kissed,

O hope, that art a mirage and a mist,

Shall I destroy thee now, and laugh thereat?—

It is too late for that.