'I see the end and know the good.'
A little hint to solace woe,
A hint, a whisper breathing low,
'I may not speak of what I know.'
Like an Æolian harp that wakes
No certain air, but overtakes
Far thought with music that it makes.
Such seemed the whisper at my side:
'What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?' I cried.
'A hidden hope,' the voice replied.