HOPE, thou hast wandered far into the night,
Thy weariness has made the world its throne
While all thy life hangs trembling on the tone
Which stands thy darkened eyes in lieu of light.
Thy lute has felt the storm's extreme despite,
And but one string whence music has not flown
Is left to it, one string wherewith alone
To sound the spirit's depths or prove its height.

Oh win for us the secret of that tense
Unbroken midmost chord! It may recall
The scattered tones, nay, haply may surprise
Thee with a vision to inform the sense;
And gift thee out of wreck and wrong withal
To see the city of God to music rise.