Hope Poetry Quotes
Quotes tagged as "hope-poetry"
Showing 1-3 of 3
“Heavier the pain, greater the hope,
But the language of hope is not inaction.
Real hope brings a sense of responsibility,
Whereas imitation hope induces stagnation.”
― Himalayan Sonneteer: 100 Sonnets of Unsubmission
But the language of hope is not inaction.
Real hope brings a sense of responsibility,
Whereas imitation hope induces stagnation.”
― Himalayan Sonneteer: 100 Sonnets of Unsubmission
“Hope is nature's defibrillator that,
Electrifies the heart to unsubmission.
Hope rescues us from the depths of despair,
Hope drags the being even out of cremation.”
― Himalayan Sonneteer: 100 Sonnets of Unsubmission
Electrifies the heart to unsubmission.
Hope rescues us from the depths of despair,
Hope drags the being even out of cremation.”
― Himalayan Sonneteer: 100 Sonnets of Unsubmission
“The Sacking of Grief by Stewart Stafford
Thou speaketh of grief as a funeral cowl lashed,
When 'tis a thorny, haunting cuckoo's nest smashed,
I wouldst cast it off, fain if choice be mine,
And not necessity's wickedness stretched supine.
Peace's changeling to restless beds doth creep,
In conjoined prayer to restoreth salvation sleep.
To crawleth awake in dawn's incessant weight,
Can I tame this sleepless lion and walk it straight?
I confesseth sins, but the blemish remains,
Call it regret that stalks these guiltless brains,
Would a surgeon's blade cut me free of it?
And I in luscious orchards, the solaced fruits bit.
O, in slumbering dusk the leonine roar doth cease,
And the pathway home heralds sweet release.
© 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
―
Thou speaketh of grief as a funeral cowl lashed,
When 'tis a thorny, haunting cuckoo's nest smashed,
I wouldst cast it off, fain if choice be mine,
And not necessity's wickedness stretched supine.
Peace's changeling to restless beds doth creep,
In conjoined prayer to restoreth salvation sleep.
To crawleth awake in dawn's incessant weight,
Can I tame this sleepless lion and walk it straight?
I confesseth sins, but the blemish remains,
Call it regret that stalks these guiltless brains,
Would a surgeon's blade cut me free of it?
And I in luscious orchards, the solaced fruits bit.
O, in slumbering dusk the leonine roar doth cease,
And the pathway home heralds sweet release.
© 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
―
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