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.