I found this poem by Virginia Moore published in The Saturday Review, July 1930 in a book.  An excerpt is below.

I believe that poetry means something different to each reader; it is the unique talent of the poem above all other means of expression. In few words and even lesser lines it can convey the exact thing that we are most looking for. For myself, poetry is a way to express myself quickly so that the pain and the tortuous hurt of the soul is released fast enough in the hopes that it doesn’t linger.

In my opinion, this poem is about rising above the deceit of life.  Each of us in our own way deal with the deceit of life. We deal with the disappointments and fears, the pain and the unknown. We do it with strength and with the breaking of all dreams. We do it because there is a moment of sun that reminds us that the soul hurt, the soul deceived will never be whole, but it cannot be truly destroyed – even by ourselves.

We each of us have a soul, a portion of our psyche that cannot be held by hands and therefore, cannot be destroyed by the spirits attempt to end us. We each have a soul that produces inside of us that which we may be able to ignore, but which lives through our hopes, our lonely daydreams, and often through the whispers of voices that haunt us.

A soul can’t be destroyed despite our best efforts. And though it can be deceived, although it can be crushed by the realities of life and those around us, it cannot be fully lost. When the world is dark, lonely and the weight of our own existence bears down on our shoulders until we can’t imagine anything but death, our soul searches for the sun.

We may not want to recognize this truth. We may not be able to recognize this truth. We may only be able to see the visible darkness of our own thoughts. But our soul grows and it calms, and if we just get though a little moment, maybe the next breath will be better than the calling death.

The soul that has believed

And is deceived

thinks nothing for a while.

All thoughts are vile.

And then because the sun

is mute persuasion

And hope in Spring and Fall

Most natural, 

The soul grows calm and mild,

a little child,

Finding the pull of breath

Better than death…

The soul that had believed

And was deceived 

Ends by believing more

than ever before.