In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 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

         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.