MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT. 19 



That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 



That not a moth with vain desire 



Is shriveled 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. 



The wish, that of the living whole 

 No life may fail beyond the grave, 

 Derives it not ft-om 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 through 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. 



" So careful of the type? " but no. 

 From scarped cliff and quarried stone 

 She cries, " A thousand types are gone ; 



I care for nothing, all shall go. 



"Thou makest thine appeal to me: 

 I bring to life, I bring to death ; 

 The spirit does but mean the breath : 



I know no more." And he, shall he, 



