To Hope

Ah, Hope, no more!

From your sweet, false art

Set free my heart;

For I know that the flake will follow

On the airy way of the swallow,

That the drift will lie where the lily blows,

And the icicle hang from the stem of the rose:

O Hope — no more!

Nay, Hope, once more!

With your olden smile

Once more beguile;

Though I know that the flake must follow

On the airy way of the swallow,

That the drift must lie where the lily blows,

And the icicle hang from the stem of the rose:

O Hope — once more!