Hope is a precious funny little thing,
Kindled and cared in a way ridiculed.
Never ever meant to hurt anything,
Alas!! Its glory grossly minisculed.
Left in a box that Pandora opened,
Never ever was it a dear little lie.
Yet when lost and feeling threatened,
First to be evoked and the last to die.
Travellers travel and rebels rebel,
Greatest of the victors in its glory revel,
Masters and slaves pray alike,
Persecutions are weathered in endless plight
Yet in a silent heartless night,
'tis but hope that shines bold and bright.
Waiting in its wake many dreams do preserve,
An endless commend it does deserve.
That oil in the lamp that happy little tramp,
That fainting beat that slowly slipping grip.
That boy that girl that ridiculous goal,
That stride for greatness that jump of madness.
All that comes, comes through hope,
Its a sprinkle of madness and a drowning man's rope.
Such is the story of the precious funny thing,
Kindled and cared and known as hope.
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