bubble30
Hope
What wilt thou do when faith is fled
And hope is dead
And love's wing broken?
Wilt thou lie in the grave of the past and sleep,
While the mourners weep
And sad rites are spoken?
Nay, nay—fare forth, though the night be black
And the storm's red rack
In the sky is burning;
For the sun shines somewhere, from gloom released,
And the heart of the east
For the day is yearning.
Harriet Monroe
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