Oh 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 will 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 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 who am I?
An infant crying in the night;
An infant crying for the light,
And with no language, but a cry.