Oh, yet we trust that somehow good <br /> Will be the final end of ill, <br /> To pangs of nature, sins of will, <br /> Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; <br /> That nothing walks with aimless feet; <br /> That not one life shall be destroy'd, <br /> Or cast as rubbish to the void, <br /> When God hath made the pile complete; <br /> That not a worm is cloven in vain; <br /> That not a moth with vain desire <br /> I shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, <br /> Or but subserves another's gain. <br /> <br /> Behold, we know not anything; <br /> I can but trust that good shall fall <br /> At last--far off--at last, to all, <br /> And every winter change to spring. <br /> <br /> So runs my dream: but what am I? <br /> An infant crying in the night: <br /> An infant crying for the light: <br /> And with no language but a cry.<br /><br />Alfred Lord Tennyson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-memoriam-a-h-h-54-oh-yet-we-trust-that-someho/
