Classic Poem

Diuturnal infirmity of hope,
thou that sustainest thus my fainting years,
and on the equal edge of weal and woe
holdest in equilibrium the scales

forever in suspense, forever loath
to tilt, thy wiles obeying that forbid
the coming ever to excess of measure
either of confidence or of despair.

Who rid thee of the name of homicide?
For thou art crueler still, if well we mark
that thou suspendest the deluded soul

between a wretched and a happy lot,
not to the end that life may be preserved,
but to inflict a more protracted death.