Alfred, Lord Tennyson


Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
at last, far off, at last, to all,
and every winter turn to spring.
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
that not one life shall be destroy,
or cast as rubbish to the void.
when god hath made the world complete
oh
That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivelled 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.

oh