And this of all my Hopes
And this of all my Hopes This, is the silent end Bountiful colored, my Morning rose Early and sere, its end
Never Bud from a Stem Stepped with so gay a Foot Never a Worm so confident Bored at so brave a Root
Emily Dickinson
And this of all my Hopes This, is the silent end Bountiful colored, my Morning rose Early and sere, its end
Never Bud from a Stem Stepped with so gay a Foot Never a Worm so confident Bored at so brave a Root
Emily Dickinson speaks of a hope that mattered more than any other, and how it came to a silent, early end. She imagines it as a morning rose—richly coloured, but withered (“sere”) almost at once, its bloom cut short.
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