HOPE

WARWICK JAMES PRICE

Hope is no day-dream of a dim "perhaps,"
Nor castle-building reverie, which saps
Endeavor of the present. It is not
Some indistinct desire that my lot
Shall somehow shape itself to different mold
At my mere whim which, like a tale that's told,
Lives but an empty moment.
None of these

Is hope, sister of faith. It is the certainty
That victory's wreath will ere long rim my brow,
For God's good gifts are given here and now.

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