Poem Hunter
(1762 - 1850 / England)


Poem By William Lisle Bowles

As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,
Still on that vision which is flown I dwell,
On images I loved, alas, too well!
Now past, and but remembered like sweet sounds
Of yesterday! Yet in my breast I keep
Such recollections, painful though they seem,
And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream
I start, and find them not; then I could weep
To think how Fortune blights the fairest flowers;
To think how soon life's first endearments fail,
And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale,
Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours
Pass, and when most we call on her to stay,
Will fly, as faithless and as fleet as they!

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Comments (1)

Hope sometimes is man's worst enemy, encouraging men to believe that things will get better when you have to know you're one dead duck. But hope does keep us trying and trying and trying and occasionally man wins through