Trust
THE LARGER TRUST FROM IN MEMORIAM
O yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
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 shriveled in a fruitless fire,
But subserves another's gain.
Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good will fall
At last—far off—at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON