"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 shriveled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain."