"Who will show us any good."

O human sadness! mystery of life!
O hearts, most finely tuned for joy or woe
That seldom joy, and often suffer so!
Whose is the Will that issues in your strife?

The corn-seed sown yields bread, or when it fails
'Tis mere exception. Some success prevails
In all mean forms of life. Their feeble powers
For happiness are satisfied in brutes,

The whole earth speaks a promise through her flowers,
And keeps it, nearly always, in her fruits.
But man! For every little hour of rest
He must be many, many times distressed;

For one right granted, crowds must suffer wrong;
A thousand sorrows go to make one song;
And every nerve-gate that lets in our bliss
Lets in tenfold the pain. Whose fiat this?

Is there a promised good in present grief?
Maybe! maybe! the doubt is half belief!
Not from thy narrow self shalt thou grow broad;
Look deeper than thy life to find thy God.