 | Knitting-work |  |
CONSCIENCE.
Sharper than whip of scorpions is the sting,
As conscience turns its searching eyes within,
Where broods the spirit with its sullied wing,
Each pinion drooping in the damps of sin.
The face may bear the evidence of joys,
And mirth ring out in the exultant laugh, —
The silent monitor the cheat destroys,
The shout is hollow as an epitaph!
Outlooking through the gloom, the conscious soul
Shudders in silence with its secret pain,
Till life and its allurements gain control,
And dulled, not cured, it onward moves again, —
A woodlawn garniture of joy concealing
Beneath its bloom the graves of joyous feeling.
As conscience turns its searching eyes within,
Where broods the spirit with its sullied wing,
Each pinion drooping in the damps of sin.
The face may bear the evidence of joys,
And mirth ring out in the exultant laugh, —
The silent monitor the cheat destroys,
The shout is hollow as an epitaph!
Outlooking through the gloom, the conscious soul
Shudders in silence with its secret pain,
Till life and its allurements gain control,
And dulled, not cured, it onward moves again, —
A woodlawn garniture of joy concealing
Beneath its bloom the graves of joyous feeling.
Blank Page
Blank Page
Blank Page
| Knitting-work | |