Hope (n.) is a sentence the soul writes about the future, and we are brimful of such sentences all our lives.
Hope (n.) is the nurse of the just man's old age — sweet, and the captain of the ever-twisting minds of mortals.
Hope (n.) lets a creature feel pleasure and pain at once — pained by its emptiness, pleased by remembering the filling to come.
Hope (n.) that is thin and desperate still bound Athens together: with no allies coming, only they and their gods could save them.
Hope (n.) is a pleasure the soul takes on its own, without the body — the sweet comfort of anticipating a pleasure still to come.
Hope (n.) is what Socrates carries to his death: not certainty, but good hope that some future awaits the dead, better for the good than the wicked.