I am Thy grass, O Lord!
  I grow up sweet and tall
But for a day, beneath Thy sword
  To lie at evenfall.

Yet have I not enough
  In that brief day of mine?
The wind, the bees, the wholesome stuff
  The sun pours out like wine.

...

From “In Memoriam,” LIII.
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,...