All hope is prayer;
who calls it hope no more,
Sends prayer footsore forth over
Sends prayer footsore forth over
weary wastes,
While he who calls it prayer,
While he who calls it prayer,
gives wings to hope.
Ella Wilcox
For hope will cull a withered flower
And tune a harp with a broken string;
And hope will shed a glimmering ray
Of light on pleasure's ruined shrine.
For mouldering columns still look gay
When summer sunbeams o'er them shine.
And tune a harp with a broken string;
And hope will shed a glimmering ray
Of light on pleasure's ruined shrine.
For mouldering columns still look gay
When summer sunbeams o'er them shine.
Rosa V Jerffey
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