Poetry analysis

analysis of a poem, my thoughts, including analysis links

Edgar Allan Poe – Female connectivity

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Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston in 1809, the same year as Tennyson.  He was a poet, editor, and literary critic who is best known for his poetry and short stories, particularly his tales involving mystery and the macabre. He is widely regarded as one of the central figures of Romanticism and Gothic fiction in the United States and of early American literature. And he was the first American to rely entirely on his literary writing to make a living.

“Annabel Lee” was Edgar Allan Poe’s last poem and unpublished at the time of his death. He regarded it as his most significant poem and made pains to ensure that it would be published. It is thought that it is in connection with his first childhood love a cousin, Virginnia Eliza Clemn who he married when he was 26 and she 13. The marriage lasted eleven years ending when Virginia died of tuberculosis in 1847.

Here is the poem …

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee; —
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
 
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love —
I and my Annabel Lee —
With a love that the wingéd seraphs in Heaven
Coveted her and me.
 
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre,
In this kingdom by the sea.
 
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me —
Yes! — that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
 
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we —
Of many far wiser than we —
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: —
 
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: —
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride,
In her sepulcher there by the sea —
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)

The angels in heaven were jealous of her, so she was quite an earth angel – metaphorically speaking.

The locked forever connection with beloved “Annabel Lee” suggests a spiritual afterlife association. So many people express deeper connectivity with a beloved partner after he or she dies. In regard to poetry Thomas Hardy comes to mind.

Edgar Allan Poe on Wikipedia … https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe

England in 1819 – Shelley – Comments

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England in 1819

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn,—mud from a muddy spring;
Rulers who neither see nor feel nor know,
But leechlike to their fainting country cling
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow.
A people starved and stabbed in th' untilled field;
An army, whom liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield;
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless—a book sealed;
A senate, Time’s worst statute, unrepealed—
Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 - 1822)

Shelley sent this sonnet to Leigh Hunt from Florence on 23 December 1819. Mary Shelley first published this sonnet in her edition of Shelley’s Poetical Works in 1839.

King George III had reigned since 1860 and he was acknowledged as violently insane in 1811. He died in January 1820. King George’s granddaughter Victoria took the throne in 1837 at the age of eighteen, so it was not published in the Georgian period.

The sons of George III had among them sired numerous illegitimate children and only two legitimate ones. In addition, they had engaged in such diverse activities as gluttony, gambling, incest with a sister, and selling army commands to those who bribed a favourite mistress.

An illusion to the Peterloo Massacre – A people starved and stabbed in th’ untilled field; …
The killing of liberty!

The Peterloo Massacre took place at St Peter’s Field, Manchester, England, on Monday 16 August 1819. Eighteen people were killed and 400–700 were injured when the cavalry of the Yeomen charged into a crowd of around 60,000 people who had gathered to demand the reform of parliamentary representation.

Gold and Blood are recurring emblems of the twin roots and forms of anarchy in much of Shelley’s work (for example, Queen Mab IV.195) – Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;

Shelley objected at Parliament being unrepresentative of the people refer to his (Philosophical View of Reform) – A senate, Time’s worst statute, unrepealed—

Well, Shelley’s sonnet took to task in no uncertain way the disgraceful behaviour of Royalty that existed when he was alive. And added to that the unrepresentative nature of Parliament.

The behaviour of Prince Andrew equally reprehensible.

Percy Bysshe Shelley on Wikipedia




Church Going – Philip Larkin – Analysis

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Church Going

Once I am sure there’s nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new –
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don’t.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
‘Here endeth’ much more loudly than I’d meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation – marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these – for which was built
This special shell? For, though I’ve no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

Philip Larkin (1922 - 1985)

I have broken this poem into seven parts for discussion, I am not sure whether Philip Larkin intended to have such a breakdown.

Part 1 …
First I will say this is something I did as a teenager. I cycled around the local rural area and if I came to a church and there was nothing happening I ventured in to have a look around. Musty is so apt as a choice in words. And brewed God over many centuries. And the silence is indeed unignorable. It is always a still space for solitude. One thing I appreciated was that many of the churches had unlocked doors to allow a wandering cyclist to enter. The doors are usually very heavy with beautiful wood so it was always a time to admire the architecture and the craftsmanship. Cycle helmets were not in use in those days, so the removal of cycle clips was equivalent to hat removal – in a sort of relevance.

Part 2 …
Philip Larkin was rather game to step into the lectern and read a few verses. Lucky that no one was around at the time to witness his short sermon! He thinks he has wasted his time with this church so a meaningful donation is out of the question. An Irish Sixpence is a good luck token.

Part 3 …
Why does he continually go into churches? What is he searching for?  And then he thinks to the future when many of these buildings might fall into ruin and become derelict. The weather and sheep might dictate rent free. More likely to be sold off though.

Part 4 …
The Church building because of its sacred nature might encourage those to seek miracles based on superstition. Dubious people suggest a shift from the original spiritual significance. And to use the church more mundane purposes – to pick simples, herbs. The practical uses for a former religious space, symbolizing the only use and the declining relevance of the church and its traditions in a secular world. 


Part 5 …
Who will be the last to use the Church for what it was built for. A shape les recognizable, representing the decline of congregation. But is this representative of the decline in spiritual awareness independent of Christianity? The last line – will He be my representative.

Part 6 …
True, churches are often only used for key social events – marriage, and death in the main seemingly needing some kind of Church sanction. Often attendees never come to other services. In that sense only a shell. But surviving over so many years while new housing estates are spilt upon the land with little architectural merit. Churches increase in land value as well as holding testimony to the Christian message. Approproate interpretation of that message is another matter. It is hard to value in anyway the worth in keeping such buildings on our landscape.


Part 7 …
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet … always a place to seek understanding of life … purpose … the spirit within in that implores us for an understanding of our existence … and what a peaceful still place to grow wise in … unfortunately so many are dead around the Church … the living dead who don’t understand.

There is a wonderful You Tube video of a conversation between Philip Larkin and John Betjeman in which he describes his Hull (UK) life, and in this 1964 video he reads his Church Going poem.

Here is the link – https://jmarriott.substack.com/p/a-youtube-education … you will have to scroll down to reach the video,

Philip Larkin on Wikipedia

Made to Measure – Stephen Edgar – Comments

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Made to Measure

Impossible to wield
The acreage of the fabric that unfolded,
Slung from his shoulders like a crumpled field:
The distance from one Christmas to the next
When he was only seven
Was aching there; a foreign city flexed
Among the ripples; a face, the star-shocked heaven
About his flailing arms were shrugged and moulded.

Too heavy to outrun,
Too slow to measure what it underwent,
Though gradually the passage of the sun,
Unmanageable in its train of light,
Seemed almost to respond
As he yanked the yards of stuff in like a kite
And gathered the brocade that trailed beyond
His arms' reach to the scale of measurement,

However strange the weave
That writhed about the working of his hands:
The footage too atrocious to believe,
Printed with corpses; Greece; the falls of salmon;
Her upturned silken wrist
He would have torn out history to examine;
His father's final blessing, which he missed.
However far he comes or where he stands,

At last, and limb by limb,
Contour by contour, that unfolded cape
Settles ever more fittingly on him.
His forehead is the line of the sky's vault,
His shoulders trace the ground,
His palms the ways he wandered by default,
And in his gestures those he knew are found.
What shape the day discovers is his shape.

Stephen Edgar (1951 -

I became interested in the poetry of Stephen Edgar, a prominent Australian poet, after we discussed some of his poems at a recent University of the Third Age meeting. This poem meant little to me on a first reading. It is the sort of poem that is easy to dismiss unless you have time and are willing to apply some thought to the metaphoric meaning. It was only when Stephen Edgar explained how this poem came into being on his Website that I started to value the poem. This is his explanation from his Website –

… the key concept is “experience”, learning about the world, and how children learn to cope with it.

The “brilliant” new image from which the poem took off was the notion of experience as a cape slung from the shoulders. To the young child this cape is far too big and unwieldy: the world is too big to deal with. As the child grows the cape becomes more manageable, even though, as the third stanza details, some of the experience on the cape is cruel and wounding. Eventually, as he ages, he grows into the cape, as it were, his experience and himself are one and the same, a perfect fit. You ultimately make your own world, even as you are made by it.

I found it interesting to equate the life path of experience to that of acquiring a cape. The material continually added to the cape as it is woven with each colourful event to eventual completion. In other words the cape is a metaphoric representation of the life of a person. It is your unique world; it is what you have woven from life. But I question whether it is a perfect fit. Is it comfortable to wear?

The first stanza details the early experiences of childhood. And there is such an acreage nowadays with the flood of information that is readily available for comprehension. Childhood questioning can now be addressed so readily by use of the internet. And influence and undue influence is another matter. So made to measure may not at all be the best fit.

But – what shape the day discovers is his shape (or her shape of course). And I guess the world makes us as much as we make the world. But are we all changing the world for the better. All I can say is may your clothing fit you to the core so that you are satisfied with the product that is you!

Perhaps a cloak would be a better choice. Both are sleeveless overgarments that drape over the shoulders, but the cloak offers more substantial coverage and function, whereas the cape is a more decorative or ceremonial accessory.

Well, you must leave it behind anyway. Or perhaps take it with you metaphorically depending on your spiritual outlook.


Stephen Edgar on Wikipedia

Spring Hail – Les Murray – analysis

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Spring Hail

We had huddled together a long time in the shed
in the scent of vanished corn and wild bush birds,
and then the hammering faltered, and the torn
cobwebs ceased their quivering and hung still
from the nested rafters. We became uneasy
at the silence that grew about us, and we came out.
The beaded violence had ceased. Fresh-minted hills
smoked, and the heavens swirled and blew away.
The paddocks were endless again, and all around
leaves lay beneath their trees, and cakes of moss.
Sheep trotted and propped, and shook out ice from their wool.
The hard blue highway that had carried us there
fumed as we crossed it, and the hail I scooped
from underfoot still bore the taste of sky
and hurt my teeth, and crackled as we walked.
This is for spring and hail, that you may remember
a boy long ago, and a pony that could fly.
With the creak and stop of a gate, we started to trespass:
my pony bent his head and drank up grass
while I ate ice, and wandered, and ate ice.
There was a peach tree growing wild by a bank
and under it and round, sweet dented fruit
weeping pale juice amongst hail-shotten leaves,
and this I picked up and ate till I was filled.
 sat on a log then, listening with my skin
to the secret feast of the sun, to the long wet worms
at work in the earth, and, deeper down, the stones
beneath the earth, uneasy that their sleep
should be troubled by dreams of water soaking down,
and I heard with my ears the creek on its bed of mould
moving and passing with a mothering sound.
This is for spring and hail, that you may remember
a boy long ago on a pony that could fly.
My pony came up then and stood by me,
waiting to be gone. The sky was now
spotless from dome to earth, and balanced there
on the cutting-edge of mountains. It was time
to leap to the saddle and go, a thunderbolt whirling
sheep and saplings behind, and the rearing fence
that we took at a bound, and the old, abandoned shed
forgotten behind, and the paddock forgotten behind.
Time to shatter peace and lean into spring
as into a battering wind, and be rapidly gone.
It was time, high time, the highest and only time
to stand in the stirrups and shout out, blind with wind
for the height and clatter of ridges to be topped
and the racing downward after through the lands
of floating green and bridges and flickering trees.
It was time, as never again it was time
to pull the bridle up, so the racketing hooves
fell silent as we ascended from the hill
above the farms, far up to where the hail
formed and hung weightless in the upper air,
charting the birdless winds with silver roads
for us to follow and be utterly gone.

This is for spring and hail, that you may remember
a boy and a pony long ago who could fly.

Les Murray (1938 – 2019)
from The Illex Tree (1965)

I had rapport with this poem on first reading. I know Les Murray was born in 1938 and that he lived in a country area so it is quite likely that this reflection is based on personal experience as a boy. In Spring you can easily get a sudden upset in the weather. In Canberra a few years ago I remember snow falling in October and actually laying on the reserve near our Latham home. It was very short-lived of course but the immediate response from local children was to have fun and get out to try and make snowballs. The boy response in this poem to hail was immediate and he was out to have fun riding full speed on his pony back home celebrating the change in landscape expressed with such fast moving dynamic words as he rode his pony.

The repetition of lines –
This is for spring and hail, that you may remember
a boy long ago, and a pony that could fly.

Shows Les Murray experienced joy in articulating this childhood recall.

The title combined with the first stanza defines the storm at its height and the need for shelter. The need for shelter from the pelting is emphasized by vibrating of cobwebs. So they must wait for relief.

What I like about this poem is the description of the transformation of the environment when the young boy ventures out to ride his pony again. The effect is dramatized by the words – fresh minted hills … and when he walks out to reach his pony – the hail I scooped from underfoot still bore the taste of sky.

And this boy of long ago celebrated the change with great joy. And that joy is returned to LM as he again reflects with the words – this is for spring and hail, that you may remember / a boy long ago, and a pony that could fly.

And his ensuing ride at great pace in the hail bruised country is brilliantly described as he rode to shatter peace and lean into spring. The joy of spring and the joy of the hail affect.

Poetry created from personal experience always has increased value. We get to have a deeper insight into the poet especially when we read more of the same poet.

Les Murray on Wikipedia – Les Murray (poet) – Wikipedia

Victoria Falls – Muriel Spark – comments

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The Victoria Falls

So hushed, so hot, the broad Zambesi lies
Above the Falls, and on her weedy isles
Swing antic monkeys swarm malignant flies,
And seeming-lazy lurk the crocodiles.
But somewhere down the river does the hush
Become a sibilance that hints a sigh,
A murmur, mounting as the currents rush
Faster, and while the murmur is a cry
The cry becomes a shout, the shout a thunder
Until the whole Zambesi water pour
Into the earth’s side, agitating under
Infinite spray mists, pounding the world’s floor.
            Wrapped in this liquid turmoil who can say
            Which is the mighty echo, which the spray?

Muriel Spark (1918 – 2006)
Written 1948

This poem created interest for me because many years ago I did spend time working in South Africa but never went to see these famous falls. In contrast Muriel  Spark went to Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) from Scotland at the age of 19 shortly before her marriage and this poem is from personal experience.

The hot docile river sets the scene in the first four lines where the seeming-lazy crocodiles lie. I was also interested in the term sibilance. And the way she used this word to capture the mood of the river.

But somewhere down the river does the hush
Become a sibilance that hints a sigh,
A murmur, mounting as the currents rush

And then personifies the sound from cry to shout to thunder.

Faster, and while the murmur is a cry
The cry becomes a shout, the shout a thunder

Thunder is the appropriate word it has a nature-generated impact and in the Bantu language the Falls are defined as Mosi-oa-Tunya, “Thundering Smoke/Smoke that Rises”.

And the whole flow of the poem like the river increases in momentum to the crescendo.

The rhyming couplet at the end of the sonnet integrates the inseparable echo and spray of the waterfall. The liquid turmoil are apt words to define the chaotic visual confusion. This visual confusion, notably between sky and water, can be seen in the paintings by Turner.

Sibilance is a literary device characterized by the repetition of hissing or hushing sounds, often involving the “s,” “z,” “sh,” and “zh” sounds. It’s used in poetry to create specific moods and effects, ranging from a soft, flowing sensation to a harsh, hissing quality. 

Whereas Onomatopoeia the naming of a thing or action by a vocal imitation of the sound associated with it (such as buzz, hiss)

Dame Muriel Sarah Spark (née Camberg; 1 February 1918 – 13 April 2006)[1] was a Scottish novelist, short story writer, poet and essayist.

Wikipedia – Muriel Spark – Wikipedia

About the Falls …

Victoria Falls – Victoria Falls (Lozi: Mosi-oa-Tunya, “Thundering Smoke/Smoke that Rises”; Tonga: Shungu Namutitima, “Boiling Water”) is a waterfall on the Zambezi River, located on the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe.[2] It is one of the world’s largest waterfalls, with a width of 1,708 m (5,604 ft).. The droplets of spray are profuse and carry oxygen to revitalise the river and surrounds. The region around it has a high degree of biodiversity in both plants and animals

Scottish missionary David Livingstone identified the falls in 1855, naming them Victoria Falls after Queen Victoria.

Exposure – Seamus Heaney – Analysis

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Exposure

It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.
A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,
And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,
Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.
How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends’
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me
As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?
Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls
The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner migr, grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne
Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;
Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent,
The comet’s pulsing rose.

Seamus Heaney (1939 – 2015)

S1 …love the word inheriting as the birch trees take up the evening light … receiving metaphoric money of a golden nature

S2 …a speck of light which weighs a million tons … and to the eye the same size as a rose-hip

S3 …as a poet does SH think himself a falling star?… a metaphoric comparison with his poetry … are the spent flukes of autumn his poetry at a time when he is in descent

S4 … perhaps SH sees his gift as one of much need … how much can words change the actions of people?

S5 …well, he is wondering about how he ended up being a poet in relation to both his friends and the anvil brains of those who hate him suggest a strong distaste

S6 …you can become disillusioned … the reception you receive from others … is it worth it … and the reference is to Ovid – sorrow set of poems … you don’t hear what people really think about your work … and does it matter

S7 …rain drops through the leaves and branches have a voice … and yet behind their voice there is a mutter … the cause of erosion … but each drop is a diamond in its own right …

here is a poetic thought …each drop a poem perhaps … but when they are all put together they can invoke a threat … if people are unprepared to take notice … just as those that do not listen to the weather report may find themselves caught in a flood of water … and at the end of art there is peace

S8 …SH has become longhaired and thoughtful …and he likens himself to an Irish outlaw … see the text the definition of “wood-kern” below

S9 …SH has removed himself from Northern Ireland and all the troubles to Wicklow … and yet he still carries a connection and feels the pain … and he hasn’t taken sides

S10 … this is a lament about his poetry … regarding his work as an under-achievement … a meagre heat  … the once in a lifetime chance thwarted … the comet inspiration … if he had stayed in the North then his poetic voice might have been much stronger in adressing the Catholic-Protestant fighting … a direct voice rather than being removed

“Migr” is a root word, commonly found in English vocabulary, that signifies the concept of movement or relocation. It originates from the Latin word “migrare,” which means “to move from one place to another”. Understanding this root can help decipher the meaning of various related words.

“Wood-kern” or “woodkern” refers to an Irish outlaw or bandit who operated in the forests or wild areas of Ireland, particularly during the period of English colonization. They were often native Irish displaced by the Anglo-Norman invasion or subsequent plantations. The term is a combination of “wood” and “kern,” the latter being a term for a type of light infantry soldier in Gaelic Ireland.

And on Exposure – when you are a poet you are exposed … and if you are a famous poet in the eye of the populace … or should I say in the ear … then you have to come to terms with that exposure … and if you are falling from expectations of yourself, and others, there is an adjustment needed on how to cope with such circumstances.

Seamus Heaney – Wikipedia

The spiritual Struggle of Tennyson

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Life is a journey. Life is a spiritual journey. Life is eternal.

Tennyson’s exposure to scientific thought, philosophy, and personal tragedies (especially the death of his close friend Arthur Hallam) caused him to question and wrestle with the Christian doctrine of his day.

Tennyson’s most famous long poem, In Memoriam A.H.H., is a profound meditation on grief, love, and the struggle between faith and doubt. He tries to come to terms with the apparent cruelty of nature and the loss of his friend with a hope in divine purpose and immortality.

He never outright rejected Christianity, but his belief was not simplistic or uncritical. He was spiritually searching, determining for himself his own acceptance of faith and the understanding to the purpose of life.

These lines from In Memoriam reflect his spiritual struggle:

“There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.”

Indicating the importance of working our own understanding of life, without blighly following the religious dictates of others.

And Canto 54 is rich with spiritual questioning. There is a cautious hope in divine purpose. Here are the lines:

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
         Will be the final end of ill,
         To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
         That not one life shall be destroy'd,
         Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain;
         That not a moth with vain desire
         Is shrivell'd 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.

Tennyson hopes that suffering and evil (“ill”) will somehow serve a higher good. He believes — or wants to believe — that life is purposeful, not random (“nothing walks with aimless feet”). He confesses human ignorance — “we know not anything” — yet he still clings to trust in a benevolent divine order.

Toward the end of his life Tennyson identified more openly with a broader Christian theism. On his deathbed, he recited passages from the Bible, indicating a retained comfort in Anglican rites and language. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, with full Anglican rites.

Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809 – 1892)
Alfred Lord Tennyson on Wikipedia