To mortal eyes, you, Hope, do seem
a form divinely sweet;
but eyes of gods can pierce the dream
and see your blind deceit.
Unhappy men in times of ill
create you for their easing;
and as their Guardian Angel still
they worship without ceasing.
Why do you flatter me with praise?
Why do you then deride me?
Why in my bosom do you raise
a dubious heart to chide me?
Stay far and fair beyond my reach,
as first my soul you greeted!
I had depended on your speech,
but you have ever cheated.
translated by Watson Kirkconnell
Vitéz Mihály CsokonaiHungarian poet 17 November 1773 — 28 January 1805 |
To Hope (poem) |
Details:Time of publication: September 7, 2011 Length: 486 characters Favorited by: 1 member |