In Memoriam A. H. H.: 54.

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.