Canto LIII

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 shrivel'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.