HOPE DEFERRED

When the weary night is fled,

And the morning sky is red,

Then my heart doth rise and say,

‘ Surely she will come to-day.’

In the golden blaze of noon,

‘ Surely she is coming soon.’

In the twilight,‘ Will she come?’

Then my heart with fear is dumb.

When the night wind in the trees

Plays its mournful melodies,

Then I know my trust is vain,

And she will not come again.