American poet
Religion, like all things, begins with self,
And naught is known, until one knows himself.
EDWIN LEIBFREED
"Veritas Vincit"
Home!
By what magic comes this spell?
What wand has touched these humble walls,
And made them glow as with a holy warmth?
What disembodied spirit glorifies the place?
Whose feet may claim the phantom echoes
That bring once more a thrill?
Whose memoried voice is this that holds
More sacred music in its roughest note
Than ever came from seraph's throat?
EDWIN LEIBFREED
"The Lesser Deity", A Soliloquy of Life
Every dead hope is a phantom that grimaces over its tomb.
EDWIN LEIBFREED
"The White Feet of the Morrow"
No matter whether failure came
A thousand different times,
For one brief moment of success,
Life rang its golden chimes.
EDWIN LEIBFREED
"I Am Content"