Walker Art Gallery

A half attentive stroll through the gallery
Catching up with news, we had admired

The scene of Shelley’s funeral pyre burning
On a cold beach, Byron bleakly standing there

In a strained attitude of poised despair

We half notice a bent blue figure curled

Hopeless around a globe, a stringless lute
Clutched and cradled in her arms, my friend

Walks up eagerly, points out the single string
I peer at the card and see the title, ‘Hope’

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Then I saw what I did not know
That only the breadth of a hair

Separates my hope from despair
A single string still on the lute

Still keeps hope’s voice from falling mute
The tilt of the head is almost too low

But hope can only raise her head
When on her soul despair has fed

And gnaws too loud to hear what hope has heard
Which makes her turn where

When she looked before
She noticed nothing she could not ignore

And fell back to the mourning she was in
For half forgotten, half-maddening sin

—The thoughts that never go away
But in the mind hold constant sway—