Confidence

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Confidence

Lie down upon the ground, thou hopeless one!

Press thy face in the grass, and do not speak.

Dost feel the green globe whirl? Seven times a week

Climbeth she out of darkness to the sun,

Which is her God; seven times she doth not shun

Awful eclipse, laying her patient cheek

Upon a pillow ghost-beset with shriek

Of voices utterless, which rave and run

Through all the star-penumbra, craving light

And tidings of the dawn from East and West.

Calmly she sleepeth, and her sleep is blest

With heavenly visions, and the joy of Night

Treading aloft with moons; nor hath she fright

Though cloudy tempests beat upon her breast.