Hope, how do you do?
how do men languish in the promise of your morrow
and daughters anguish in the weary of your yester
Who art the master of the rod by which you guide or by which you strike, to which we have strode and tripped
We hop in pomp of merry, but grind our teeth in throbs of sorrow, who art maketh your rules
Tell me oh dear, when you cometh and goeth so that I can tarry in you, in hope!
©lewteb
L