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Alfred Lord Tennyson - In Memoriam A. H. H.: 54.
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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
     I 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.
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