THE GRAVE OF HOPE

There's a wild little gnome in the wood

Who sings as he digs a grave

Of Hope that soars and Hope that flies

And Hope that singes her wings, and lies

In peace where the willows wave.

And he croons in the pauses of toil,

A shivering song of Fears,

The lean black shades of Hope so fair

Who weave her nets with her golden hair

And harry her down the years.

And he knows she will perish at last,

He has carved her name on the stone

While the trees draw near and forget to sleep,

And the little leaves bend their heads and weep,

For Hope that must die alone.