Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The HopeJohn Cowper Powys
T
The leering demon-days
Deride, and reason plays,
Snug as a raven on a gallows-tree,
Its ancient game with me,
Flapping its wings and lewdly gibbering,
“Life is a humorous thing!”
But on I fare, clutching—
It is not gold,
The hope I hold.
Delicate cruelty
Snatches at, passing by;
And like a vine-leaf, fallen from its place
Upon a tortured face,
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.
Nature herself with glee
Derides. And destiny
With evil goblin laughter indicates
The adamantine gates,
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.
O hope, that art a mirage and a mist,
Shall I destroy thee now, and laugh thereat?—
It is too late for that.