Whenever shades of expectation
They grow and change and seem to shift
The morrow's ghost of Yesterday
Illumined by the light
Finds ugle form in sharp relief
And power to incite
A sullen, disappointed mien
From Hope that died to dust.
The Present future spitefully
is violating Trust.
For what is yet is forged of Dream,
restrained by fetters not,
Whereas the now and past are bound
But for the shift of Thought.
And Dream and Thought can only join
In Art and never life.
For Art is Hope and life is Truth
And Truth is is borne in strife.