Oh Bird of Hope! Soar not too high
Because the skies are fair;
The tempest may come on apace
And overcome thee there.
When far above the mountain tops
Thou soarest over all,
If, then, the storm should press thee back,
How great would be thy fall!
And thou wouldst lie here at my feet,
A poor and lifeless thing--
A torn and bleeding birdling, with
A limp and broken wing.
Sing not too loud, oh bird of Hope!
Because the day is bright;
The sunshine cannot always last--
The morn precedes the night.
And if thy song is of the day,
Then when the day grows dim,
Forlorn and voiceless thou wouldst sit
Among the shadows grim.
Oh! I would have thee soar and sing,
But not too high, or loud:
Remembering that day meets night--
The brilliant sun the cloud.
[GHOSTS.]
There are ghosts in the room,
As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there
They come out of the gloom
And they stand at my side, and they lean on my chair.
There's the ghost of a Hope
That lighted my days with a fanciful glow;
In her hand is the rope
That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.
But her ghost comes to-night,
With its skeleton face, and expressionless eyes,
And it stands in the light
And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.