Fiorella found this sonnet as she was going through old papers.
Hope is a snake that curls within my breast
A sharp-tongued viper aimed against my heart
A blood-cold serpent, most unwelcome guest
That strikes from time to time when I'm off guard--
Hope is Scaramouche, a clever fool,
A honeyed braggart, slick, a worthless flirt,
A quack deceiver, lord of ridicule,
Who gulls my brain when I am not alert--
Hope is a misshaped branch, a crooked tree,
Which grows unbidden in my dismal yard,
The soft, sweet fruit of which will poison me
If I ignore its proven ill regard--
But do not slay it--let the villain be--
For murder hope, and murder all of me
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