Work Without Hope

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair--

The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--

And WINTER, slumbering in the open air,

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!

And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow,

Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.

Bloom, O ye Amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may,

For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away!

With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:

And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?

WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve,

And HOPE without an object cannot live.

Lines Composed 21st February, 1827