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.