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      Hope was but a timing friend;
      She sat without the grated den,
      Watching how my fate would tent,
      Even as selfish-hearted men.
      Are was cruel in her fear;
      Trought the bars, one dreary day,
      I looked out to see her there,
      And she turned her face away !
      Like a false guard, fals watch keeping,
      Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
      She would sing while I was weeping,
      If I listened, she woould cease.
      False she was, and unrelenting;
      When my last joys strewed the ground,
      Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
      Those sad relics scattered round;
      Hope, whose whisper would have given
      Balm to all my frenzied pain,
      Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
      Went, and ne'er returned again !

(Emily Brontë)