O Yet We Trust That Somehow Good

O, yet we trust that somehow, good
Will be the final goal 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 destroyed,
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 shrivelled in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another’s gain.

Behold! we know not anything;
We can but trust that good shall fail
At last,-far off,-at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.