O Hope, who sought'st fulfillment of deep dreams
Beyond those Caucasus of Faith and Truth,—
Twixt silver realms of eld and golden youth
Rolled,—cloudward clustered; whose sonorous streams,
Urned in the palms of Death, gush to his feet:
Unlovely beauty of sad, stirless sight
Mixed in them with eternity of night;—
O Hope, how sad the journey once so sweet!
Dreams crowned with thorns have passed thee on the way;
And Beauties with bare limbs red-bruised and torn;