O YET we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal 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 destroyed, 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 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEMORY OF APRIL by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON by RICHARD LOVELACE THE WASTE PLACES by JAMES STEPHENS MERLIN AND THE GLEAM by ALFRED TENNYSON ST. SIMEON STYLITES by ALFRED TENNYSON HIMALAYA by WILLIMINA L. ARMSTRONG ANNA BULLEN, ACT 1: SHORT CURSE by JOHN BANKS (17TH CENTURY-) |