Alfred Lord Tennyson (
1809-
1892)
Oh yet we trust that somehow
good
Will be the final goal of
ill,
To pangs of
nature,
sins of will,
Defects of
doubt, and taints of
blood;
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy’d,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When
God hath made the pile complete;
That not a
worm is cloven in vain;
That not a
moth with vain desire
Is shrivell’d in a fruitless
fire,
Or but subserves another’s gain.
Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last–far off–at last, to all,
And every
winter change to
spring.
So runs my
dream: but what am I?
An
infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no
language but a cry.