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Canto LIV

  • sammack1126
  • Oct 20, 2019
  • 1 min read



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 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.


-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LIV

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