Alfred Lord Tennyson (
1809-
1892)
The
wish, that of the living whole
No
life may fail beyond the
grave,
Derives it not from what we have
The likest
God within the
soul?
Are God and
Nature then at
strife,
That Nature lends such
evil dreams?
So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life;
That I, considering everywhere
Her
secret meaning in her deeds,
And finding that of fifty
seeds
She often brings but one to bear,
I falter where I firmly trod,
And falling with my weight of cares
Upon the great world’s altar-stairs
That slope thro’
darkness up to God,
I stretch lame hands of
faith, and grope,
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger
hope.