Percy Bysshe Shelley Hope Poems

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And many there were hurt by that strong boy,
His name, they said, was Pleasure,
And near him stood, glorious beyond measure
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And said I that all hope was fled,
That sorrow and despair were mine,
That each enthusiast wish was dead,
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Such hope, as is the sick despair of good,
Such fear, as is the certainty of ill,
Such doubt, as is pale Expectation’s food
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It is not blasphemy to hope that Heaven
More perfectly will give those nameless joys
Which throb within the pulses of the blood
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