Monday, October 31, 2005

From "In Memoriam"

We talked about the debate over Darwinism in my 19th C. British Prose class tonight, and this poem by Tennyson speaks to that, but it also spoke to me personally, thus I share it with the vastly uninterested blogosphere.

O, 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 shrivelled by 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 turn 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.

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