| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The Hope | | By John Cowper Powys |
| | | THE HOPE I hold | |
| The leering demon-days | |
| Deride, and reason plays, | |
| Snug as a raven on a gallows-tree, | |
| Its ancient game with me, | 5 |
| Flapping its wings and lewdly gibbering, | |
| “Life is a humorous thing!” | |
| But on I fare, clutching— | |
| It is not gold, | |
| The hope I hold. | 10 |
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| The hope I hold, | |
| Delicate cruelty | |
| Snatches at, passing by; | |
| And like a vine-leaf, fallen from its place | |
| Upon a tortured face, | 15 |
| Offers its fragrance to betray, sighs low, | |
| “Life is a humorous show!” | |
| But on I fare, clutching— | |
| It is not gold, | |
| The hope I hold. | 20 |
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| The hope I hold | |
| Nature herself with glee | |
| Derides. And destiny | |
| With evil goblin laughter indicates | |
| The adamantine gates, | 25 |
| And with a maniac-chuckle rallies me, | |
| “That way is closed, you see!” | |
| But I fare on, clutching— | |
| It is not gold, | |
| The hope I hold. | 30 |
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| O hope, whose face in madness I have kissed, | |
| O hope, that art a mirage and a mist, | |
| Shall I destroy thee now, and laugh thereat?— | |
| It is too late for that. | | | | |
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