In which I set Emily Dickinson spinning in her grave

In light of the recent CMU study suggesting that hope is mentally unhealthy, I hereby offer a rebuttal to Emily Dickinson.
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Hope is the thing that slithers
And creeps throughout the brain,
And whispers things we long to hear --
To fool us yet again,

And tempting are the words it speaks;
And weakness it can find,
The better to entice us with
And play tricks on the mind.

It keeps that closure out of reach
Which would cold heartbreak salve;
It taunts us with enduring want
For what we ne'er may have.