In Memoriam A.H.H.
yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
of doubt, and taints of blood;
nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy’d,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
God hath made the pile complete;
not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire,
but subserves another’s gain.
we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last–far off–at last, to all,
every winter change to spring.
runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
with no language but a cry.
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