That not a worm is cloven in vain;
    That not a moth with vain desire
    Is shrivelled 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.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

DAY BREAKS.

  What dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower. 
  Is the day breaking?  Comes the wished-for hour? 
  Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand,
  If the bright morning dawns upon the land.

  “The stars are clear above me; scarcely one
  Has dimmed its rays in reverence to the sun;
  But I yet see on the horizon’s verge
  Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge.”

  Look forth again, O watcher on the tower,—­
  The people wake and languish for the hour;
  Long have they dwelt in darkness, and they pine
  For the full daylight that they know must shine.

  “I see not well,—­the moon is cloudy still,—­
  There is a radiance on the distant hill;
  Even as I watch the glory seems to grow;
  But the stars blink, and the night breezes blow.”

  And is that all, O watcher on the tower? 
  Look forth again; it must be near the hour;
  Dost thou not see the snowy mountain copes,
  And the green woods beneath them on the slopes?

  “A mist envelops them; I cannot trace
  Their outline; but the day comes on apace: 
  The clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes,
  And all the stars grow dim; the morning breaks.”

  We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower: 
  But look again, and tell us, hour by hour,
  All thou beholdest:  many of us die
  Ere the day comes; oh, give them a reply!

  “I see the hill-tops now, and chanticleer
  Crows his prophetic carol on mine ear;
  I see the distant woods and fields of corn,
  And ocean gleaming in the light of morn.”

  Again, again, O watcher on the tower! 
  We thirst for daylight, and we bide the hour,
  Patient, but longing.  Tell us, shall it be
  A bright, calm, glorious daylight for the free?

  “I hope, but cannot tell; I hear a song,
  Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong,
  As of a lark—­young prophet of the noon—­
  Pouring in sunlight his seraphic tune.”

  What doth he say, O watcher on the tower? 
  Is he a prophet? does the dawning hour
  Inspire his music?  Is his chant sublime,
  Filled with the glories of the future time?

  “He prophesies,—­his heart is full; his lay
  Tells of the brightness of a peaceful day;
  A day not cloudless, nor devoid of storm,
  But sunny for the most, and clear and warm.”