By BRO. SEYMOUR BRANDES
(From The New Age Magazine, Washington, D. C., April, 1915)
A sense of imperfection round me clings;
I hear an inward voice in deep lament:
Through the dark chancel of my soul there rings
A boding chant, with fear and yearning blent.
Thin as a specter's voice in lonely round:
I cannot tell from whence it came-or why,-
It harrows all my thoughts with mournful sound,
Like echoes of a drowning seaman's cry.
The precious pearls of wasted talent thrown
In isolated spots of my life's field:
Its irrecoverable riches sown
As worthless seed that gave a barren yield.
The images of folly, sloth and sin
That flecked with error all my nobler past,
Troop mockingly around with leering grin;
I view with shuddering doubt-I am aghast!
Tupelo Masonic Lodge No. 318 F&AM
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