November Poem--Alfred Lord Tennyson--from In Memoriam--A. H. H.

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From Tennyson's lengthy cycle trying to cope with the loss of a dear friend. Tennyson himself says of it that it is:

"a poem, not a biography .... The different moods of sorrow as in a drama are dramatically given, and my conviction that fear, doubts, and suffering will find answer and relief only through Faith in a God of Love. `I' is not always the author speaking of himself, but the voice of the human race speaking through him."

from In Memoriam--A.H.H. Obiit MDCCCXXXIII #54
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

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.

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This page contains a single entry by Steven Riddle published on November 2, 2003 6:59 AM.

Seven Days of Prayer for the Souls in Purgatory was the previous entry in this blog.

A Poem for All Souls Day--John Milton--from "Lycidas" is the next entry in this blog.

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