Теннисон

[avva]

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.

[from: Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam, poem 54]

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

только не переводите. пожалуйста!