HOPE AND DESPAIR

I tread the maze of the changing wood, And though no light through the maples plays, Yet they glow each one, Like a rose-red sun, And drop their leaves, like a glittering flood Of warm sunbeams, in the woodland ways.

Poor human heart, in the year of life All seasons are, and it rests with thee To enjoy them all, Or to drape a pall O'er withered hopes, and to be at strife With things that are, and no brightness see.