Hope deferred makes sick, indeed, the human heart,
Always obscure no matter how hard we pray and play our part.
Sick, worried, bereft of dreams, aimlessly we wander
So long in the wastelands of despair, good we no longer ponder.

Dreams shadowy, nebulous, planted in the nether shallow
By other-worldly hands in the Garden of All Souls Hallow.
How do they take root and grow neath the ground of Mystery?
These hope-filled dreams, ever-growing so elusively?

How do we enter through the Gate of the Burning Unknown
To pull or pluck our hopes and dreams so vaguely sown?
Or should we wait outside the Gate, vagabonds in begging,
For the Gardner to give us such fruit without charging?

For what is our life without hopes and dreams, but vain?
Ah! But what is life without the Gardner himself to sustain?