In Memoriam A.H.H.

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,
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.

Today on history:

  1. 2011:  马原预习中(0)
  2. 2010:  2010第一天(2)
  3. 2006:  不是吧!(2)
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