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November 2, 2003
November Poem--Alfred Lord Tennyson--from In Memoriam--A. H. H.
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 TennysonOh, 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.
Posted by Steven Riddle at November 2, 2003 6:59 AM
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