There has never been a time when rays of hope
Were readily out the lattice;
Hope that yields some lasting fruit
Never offers its juices gratis.
Hope is first a throb in the heart
That makes persistent song;
Played to a score with honest key
It rights many a wrong.
Then, when other wrongs coalesce,
And the song is somewhat muted,
We must invent a new octave
To the new despotism suited.
In times of the most onslaught
The best octaves are those
That loving hearts in unison make,
And in partnership compose.
Our souls must outrun our skins,
Or what is being human for?
Nothing sets off our reason more
Than an intelligence beyond despair.
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