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
 I 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.