Sitting in Michael's Lap
The Fall of Hope
There lives a bird whose name is “Hope:”
The child of Joy, and Love --
In all the heavens’ wide expanse,
There flies no fairer dove --
Although it soars to eagle-heights,
And there triumphant sings,
The least rejection, gently told,
Can crush the fragile wings;
When falls to unfamiliar earth
What fathomed only sky,
It suffers mute, without surcease,
For Hope can never die.
Denial seems the surest balm
For wounds of infamy,
And so, to shadows, Hope retreats --
Ashamed to ever be.
But Life, unknown for sympathy,
Skips not the slightest beat --
And Pride endeavors to ignore
What it cannot defeat ...
So, Hope becomes the nagging ache
In Realism’s side,
Denied, but not completely masked,
Nor drowned by drug of Pride.
What once outmatched the sweetest dreams
Now seems a slow disease;
And Desperation seeks the aid
This illness, Hope, to ease ...
Unresting, and without relent,
The search will never end,
To soothe the pain of wounded Hope
That only Hope can mend.
Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange...
--William Shakespeare, from The Tempest