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.