What feeds this feeble rill of Hope
Trickling to a Lake of Doubt?
Whose servants march beside its slope
Whispering of dams and drought?
From beck to brook, from brook to streams,
To cataracts of roiling grief
Which thunder through our fever dreams
To drown in pools of disbelief...
What nourishment from depthless wells.
From sunless seas — what nameless source
Dares circumscribe our private hells
To bid our helmsman: ‘Hold your course!’
When all is lost, when terror reigns
And men despair — when deaths are cures
And rope the remedy for pains:
Still, drop by drop, Hope’s rill endures!