Now faith is dead and hope is deadly sick,
And joy—dear joy—she died so long ago
I have forgot her face; but these are quick,
Black care, and stinging shame, and bitter woe.
Then what is left in my Pandora's chest?
Courage is left, but mated with despair,
Who should have wed with hope. Yet be ye blest—
Rise up and take your blessing, happy pair!
I lay in thine, sad bride, this princely hand—
In all the world there is no nobler name—
And thou, brave groom—though 'tis not what we planned—
Take her, she will be true: be thou the same.
Courage and sorrow: might these two give birth?
O thought too bold, O dream too sweet, too wild?
Though joy—dear joy—be dead and cold in earth,
Her ghost is peace, and love is sorrow's child.