The Larger Hope


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 will 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 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 who am I?
 An infant crying in the night;
 An infant crying for the light,
And with no language, but a cry.


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Return to the Alfred Lord Tennyson library , or . . . Read the next poem; The Last Tournament

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