Poem April 3, 1937 Issue

Hope

RUBIE FORSYTH

You say the singing earth is still—frozen the rill?
But, no! stoop low,
And you will hear beneath the snows
Hepatica and Christmas rose.

You say the human heart is dead—that hope has fled?
Ah, no! stoop low,
And you will see a vital spark
That glows and grows against the dark!
For hope springs ever in the breast,
And it is blest!
A ray
From that divine, effulgent day
That shineth far above the clay!

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