In Memoriam

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