Hope Is A Tattered Flag

Hope is a tattered flag and a dream of time.

Hope is a heartspun word, the rainbow, the shadblow in

The evening star inviolable over the coal mines,

The shimmer of northern lights across a bitter winter night,

The blue hills beyond the smoke of the steel works,

The birds who go on singing to their mates in peace, war, peace,

The ten-cent crocus bulb blooming in a used-car salesroom,

The horseshoe over the door, the luckpiece in the pocket,

The kiss and the comforting laugh and resolve—Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder.

The spring grass showing itself where least expected,

The rolling fluff of white clouds on a changeable sky,

The broadcast of strings from Japan, bells from Moscow,

Of the voice of the prime minister of Sweden

Across the sea in behalf of a world family of

And children singing chorals of the Christ

And Bach being broadcast from Bethlehem,

And tall skyscrapers practically empty of

And the hands of strong men groping for

And the Salvation Army singing God loves us….