In very beautiful language the poet Tennyson, after proposing the same riddle, replies to it thus:—
‘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;
“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.