Emily Brontë turns hope into a person, but not a comforting one. Hope is a “timid friend” sitting outside the speaker’s cell — a grated den — watching her fate without helping. Like a selfish person, Hope is ruled by fear. When the speaker looks out, Hope turns her face away. She whispers peace during struggle, yet falls silent the moment the speaker tries to listen. The whole relationship feels cold and untrustworthy.
By the end, the speaker’s last joys lie shattered, and even Sorrow feels pity. Instead of offering relief, Hope stretches her wings and flies away forever. The poem builds a mood of deep desolation: hope isn’t just absent, it’s actively cruel. The cage imagery and that averted face make the sense of abandonment sting. It’s a raw, bitter portrait of losing all belief that things might improve.