Poem January 1, 1927 Issue

[Written for the Sentinel]

Self

LEOTA EDYTHA ST. JOHN

O self, that blindeth till I cannot see;
Till pains of sense encompass me!
O self! without thee thought might fly
On pinioned wings, to dwell on high.
O love, that freely here might flow,
To comfort, heal, a world of woe!
But never through me can it be,
If thou, O self, dost rule in me.

A whisper rose; I heard its call full clear;
A voice I've learned to hold most dear—
The inward voice of Truth and Love,
That calls as gently as a dove!
The thongs of sense dropped quick away;
I saw before me cloudless day!
And now I know there'll never be
But one real self—Love's self—me!

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