Thursday, March 27, 2014

Oh Yet We Trust

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 destroyed,
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 shriveled 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.

You can hear this poem read on YouTube, I put the link below.

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