Fickle Hope

Hope, is this thy hand
Lies warm as life in mine?
Is this thy sign
Of peace none understand?

What! art thou not steadfast?
From off the blue air’s beach
Wilt lean and reach
The price of pity past?

I know not if I may
Believe thee, Hope, or doubt:
With pretty pout
Wilt flee, or wilt thou stay?

More poems by Harrison Smith Morris

A Pine-Tree Buoy

Where all the winds were tranquil,
And all the odors sweet,
And rings of tumbling upland …
Destiny

Our many years are made of clay and cloud,
And quick desire is but as morning dew;
And love and life, that linger and are proud, …
Mohammed and Seid

Swept by the hot wind, stark, untrackable,
The stony desert stretches to the sky.
Deep-printed shadows at the tent-door lie, …
The Lonely-Bird

O dappled throat of white! Shy, hidden bird!
Perched in green dimness of the dewy wood,
And murmuring, in that lonely, lover mood, …