In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 54

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
         Will be the final end 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,
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.

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