Here's one by A. E. Housman that is unrelieved in its total absence of light, at the end of the tunnel or anywhere else:
Be Still, My Soul, Be Still
Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.
Think rather, --call to thought, if now you grieve a little,
The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.
Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry
I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;
Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:
Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.
Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,
I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.
Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:
Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.
Ay, look: earth and high heaven ail from the prime foundation;
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all in vain:
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation--
Oh, why did I awake? When shall I sleep again?
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