Canto LIII
Oh yet we trust that somehow goodWill 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 desireIs shrivel’d in a fruitless fire,Or but subserves another’s gain.
Behold! we know not anything;I can but trust that good shall fallAt 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.