I must go in; the fog is rising. - Emily Dickinson
"Perhaps when worn with pain, in darkened room..."
"What the hell are you reading, man?"
Murdock jumped. The words, though whispered, were as threatening as any shout. He barely remembered to keep his own voice low.
"Geez, BA, scare a person half to death, why don't you?"
"What you reading something like that for? We're sposed to be encouraging him."
"It's from a book of poems Face had. Well, not a real book - it's like a fancy scrapbook. See - hardcover and all. Looks like he cut out a whole bunch of them and stuck them in here."
"That don't sound like something he'd read to his girlfriends."
"It's not. I looked through them - they're all poems about not giving up, hoping for better things."
"That don't sound like Face either."
"I didn't think so either, until I went back and looked at the very front of it. See?"
BA squinted to see in the low light. "Man, looks like a really old newspaper clipping."
"It is. And look here, at the inscription inside the cover."
Again, BA looked closely. In careful script, it read, "Never give up hope, Alvin. Remember - A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. Psalm 68:5." It was signed by Father Magill.
BA straightened. "You mean Face has been collecting these all this time?"
"Must be. Funny I never saw it before this."
"Naw, he wouldn't have kept it with him. Not when he could lose it if the Army showed up." BA frowned. "You remember when Stockwell got kidnapped by that guy? Face took off for a couple hours when we first got out to LA. Had a little box with him when he came back - about the size of that book."
"Maybe he left it with the priest, or in a safe deposit box."
BA shook his head. "Don't matter now. Gotta be important to him, to keep it all these years." He frowned. "But that poem you was reading don't sound so hopeful."
"It is, though. And really, it's perfect, right now." He looked over at Face, surrounded by machines with blinking lights and tiny beeps. "Yeah, it's perfect."
Hope Never Slumbers Long - Anna J. Granniss
Not even Hope can always soar and sing;
Sometimes she needs must rest a willing wing.
And wait in midst of her glad carolling.
Faint not, dear heart, though she rest over night -
Her wings are swifter than the wings of light;
They're gaining strength for more enduring flight.
Fret not because her voice is sometimes still;
It may be catching some new lilt or thrill;
She'll sing again, all of her own sweet will.
Perhaps when worn with pain, in darkened room.
Denied the light, the beauty, and the bloom,
You'll see a little rift within the gloom;
Then hear a stir, as of unfolding wings;
And low, sweet notes, as one who tries the strings
In tender prelude just before he sings.
And wakened Hope, grown vigorous and strong.
Will then surprise the silence with a song -
Keep a brave heart, Hope never slumbers long.