A Respite from the Lake of Constant Quorum

Oh, weary soul, how doth thy patience last,

With endless meetings chained in bleak array?

Can’st thou endure these hours going past,

Rare moments free to tend thine own dismay?

Ah, such cruel bites the serpent’s routine prints,

From morn till dusk, relentless drum's echo,

In ‘selves,