“Prisoner of hope,” I hear the words whispered through the grated window, “prisoner of hope, remain in your fortress chained to hope until that thing hoped for finds its right season and comes forth.”
I am such a prisoner of hope. The things long dreamed for I cannot make happen, yet to stop hoping is beyond my power also. Hope blossoms in my arms while feet are chained and movement left or right is quite impossible. Though hope deferred has sometimes struck my heart with a grievous sickness, I find myself holding on to tender hope with a stubbornness that defies all logic. Why does this hope not die, I wonder. But, no . . . it will not. And I have not the power to break the chains that hold me to it.
Shall I remain in this fortress? Of course I shall. Where else would I go but where hope keeps me?
Artwork: Hope by Edward Burne-Jones