Hope Makes Cowards Of Us All Poem by Roy Ballard

Your love deterred him: it was worth too much.

Base metal he was made for, not for gold

which makes him twice a traitor to himself:

for dread of spoiling what he loves to touch

and fear of losing what he longs to hold.


When you were smiling at him, understand

that as your summer dress blew in the wind

hope fled away in cowardly despair

though wishes hung and every hope was pinned

on walking with you always, hand in hand.


So now he finds himself in winter's way.

In frosty fields he stamps his craven feet

and feels the price faint-hearted lovers pay

when longed-for lips are close but fail to meet

on some delightful, summer-skirted day.