III.
She plucketh many flowers,
Their beauty on her bosom's coldness killing;
She teacheth every melancholy sound
To winds and waters round;
She droppeth tears with seed, where man is tilling
The rugged soil in his exhausted hours;
She smileth—ah me! in her smile doth go
A mood of deeper woe!
IV.
Hope tripped on out of sight
Crowned with an Eden wreath she saw not fade,
And went a-nodding through the wilderness,
With brow that shone no less
Than sea-bird wings, by storm more frequent made,—
Searching the treeless rock for fruits of light;
Her fair quick feet being armed from stones and cold,
By slippers all of gold.
V.
Memory did Hope much wrong,
And, while she dreamed, her slippers stole away;
But still she wended on with mirth unheeding,
The while her feet were bleeding;
Till Memory met her on a certain day,
And with most evil eyes did search her long
And cruelly, whereat she sank to ground
In a stark deadly swound.
