Pandora

A breathless stealing down the silent room;
A stealthy wrenching off - the lid gave way:
Catastrophy befell the brilliant day
As out crept chaos, wasting fear and gloom.

Anxiety since seems to dull the light
That though it shines as brightly will not touch
But hover round the surface, pretty much
As sparks may never dreariness incite.

All we are left with is a little hope,
Squeezed into bits by trembling hands that grope
For their small share. Not large enough to hold,
Too lightly thwarted, it gives yet more scope
To anyone too insecure to cope -
Its end is misery, its comfort cold.