Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Oh yet we trust that somehow goodWill 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 completeohThat not a worm is cloven in vain;That not a moth with vain desireIs shrivelled in a fruitless fire,Or but subserves another's gain.
??????Behold, we know not anything;I can but trust that good shall fallAt 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
