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.