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.