On 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 ******* to the void,
When God has made the pile complete.


That not a worm is cloven in vain;
     that not a moth with insane desire
     is shrivelled in a fruitless fire,
or 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.


So runs my dream:-But what am I?
     An infant crying in the night:
     An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.


The wish,that of the living whole
     no life may fail beyond the grave,
     derives it not from what we have
the likest God within the soul?


Is God and nature then at strife,
     that nature lends such evil dreams?
     so careful of the types she seems,
so careless of the single life.


That I, considering everywhere
     her secret meaning in her deeds,
     and finding that of fifty seeds
she often brings just one to bear.


I falter where I finally trod,
     and falling with my weight of cares
     upon the world's altar-stairs
that  ***** through darkness up to God.


I stretch lame hands of faith, and *****,
     and gather dust and chaff, and all,
     to what I feel is Lord of all.
and faintly trust the larger hope.