Hope
Our lives, discoloured with our present woes,
May still grow white and shine with happier hours.
So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains
Of rushing torrents and descending rains,
Works itself clear, and as it runs refines,
till by degrees the floating mirror shines;
Reflects each flower that on the border grows,
And a new heaven in it's fair bosom shows.
This was taken from page 92 of Gems of National Poetry compiled by Mrs Valentine and pulished by Griffin, Farran, Okeden and WelshJim Saville
