January 12

Doubt swells and surges, with swelling doubt behind!

My soul in storm is but a tattered sail,

Streaming its ribbons on the torrent gale;

In calm, 'tis but a limp and flapping thing:

Oh! swell it with thy breath; make it a wing,—

To sweep through thee the ocean, with thee the wind

Nor rest until in thee its haven it shall find.