UHork without Hope. 
Coleridge. 
A LL Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair—- 
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing— 
And Winter, slumbering in the open air, 
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! 
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, 
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow; 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. 
Bloom, Oh ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, 
For me ye bloom not! glide, rich streams, away ! 
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll ; 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul # 
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, 
And hope without an object cannot live. 

