Poetry

a short poem by George H. Free What makes you a Mason, O brother of mine? It isn't the dueguard, nor is it the sign, It isn't the jewel which hangs on your breast, It isn't the apron in which you are dressed, It isn't the step, nor the token, nor grip, Nor lectures that fluently flow from the lip, Nor yet the possession of that mystic word, On five points of fellowship duly conferred. Though these are essential, desirable, fine, They don't make a Mason, O brother of mine. Tha

a poem by Rudyard Kipling -- Jubal sang of the Wrath of God And the curse of thistle and thorn— But Tubal got him a pointed rod, And scrabbled the earth for corn. Old—old as that early mould, Young as the sprouting grain— Yearly green is the strife between Jubal and Tubal Cain Jubal sang of the new-found sea, And the love that its waves divide— But Tubal hollowed a fallen tree And passed to the further side. Black—black as the hurricane-wr