The Grave Of Hope

There's a wild little gnome in the wood Who sings as he digs a grave Of Hope that soars and Hope that flies And Hope that singes her wings, and lies In peace where the willows wave.

And he croons in the pauses of toil, A shivering song of Fears, The lean black shades of Hope so fair Who weave her nets with her golden hair And harry her down the years.

And he knows she will perish at last, He has carved her name on the stone While the trees draw near and forget to sleep, And the little leaves bend their heads and weep, For Hope that must die alone.

TREES OF THE WILDERNESS

The great bleak trees stand up against the sky Lifting their naked arms in ceaseless prayer To the unpitying heavens, that they might die, Rather than drag their weary lives out there.

Thro' starless nights the untold hours wear on, All awful phantom shapes affright the wood-- And morning light but brings th' unwinking sun, To torture with its glare their solitude.

In those grim wilds no sweet-voiced bird will sing, No flowers will bloom within those trackless lands, Nor is there trace of any living thing, Save those gaunt giants, holding up their hands.

And when they fall, still round the unknown spot Howls the rough wind, till in the common ground They end the life which is--and yet is not,-- A riddle where no meaning shall be found.