We have no hope left, save in her,
The ancient mother of men,
And the old ineffable stir
Of life breaking forth again!
Moss upon ruins,
Grass upon graves,
And the fragile leaves of hope
In the cracks of broken hearts.
For the faint wind-flowers will quiver yet,
And beneath impenetrable trees,
Will bloom as of old the violet,
In the ashes of these insanities.