(‘Hope’ by George Frederic Watts)

You called me Hope
But hope of what I ask you?
As I sit here on a barren rock
Beside a bitter, forlorn, green sea

Is the blindfold bound around my eyes
To prevent my viewing the bleakness?
Or keep some hideous disfigurement
Hidden from your delicate eyes?

This lyre you gave me has only one string
What hope have I of playing anything?
Have I played it so discordantly
That you decided I should cease?

Some may see beauty in my seclusion
In the translucent sky overhead
But still I dream my shattered dream
That they were here in my stead!

I actually own a print of this painting which I love to look at. But in all the years I’ve owned it, I never seen what is the aspect that calls it Hope, unless that hope be forlorn. Still, these views are not mine, I think she may have spoken to my subconscious!

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