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.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) English poet

“In Memoriam A. H. H.” [Arthur Henry Hallam], part 54, st. 5 (1849)