HOPE AND DESPAIR

I tread the maze of the changing wood,

And though no light through the maples plays,

Yet they glow each one,

Like a rose-red sun,

And drop their leaves, like a glittering flood

Of warm sunbeams, in the woodland ways.

Poor human heart, in the year of life

All seasons are, and it rests with thee

To enjoy them all,

Or to drape a pall

O'er withered hopes, and to be at strife

With things that are, and no brightness see.