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HROUGH the wood where the serpent lies hidden asleep, If indeed he can sleep when a mortal is near ; Up the way that is narrow, the path that is steep, With no guide for my footsteps, no help for my fear : Only this — that He knoweth the way that I tread, And His banner of crimson is over my head. With the loneliness awful pressed into my soul, With no voice for companion, no grasp of a hand With the dimmest of longings for dreamiest goal, With the reeds to support me, the oaks to withstand : With this only for solace — God knoweth indeed Where the poverty galls, of what things we have need.