Alfred lord tennyson

Oh yet we trust that somehow good

Will be the final goal of ill

At last far off at last to all

And every winter turn to spring

That nothing walks with aimless feet

That not one life shall be destroy

Or cast as rubbish to the void

When god hath made the world complete

Oh

That not a worm is cloven in vain

That not a moth with vain desire

Is shrivelled 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

Oh