![Transcription Center logo](/themes/custom/tc_theme/assets/image/logo.png)
This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.
I am mine own priest, and I shrine myself of all my wasted yesterdays. Thou sin And sloth and foolishness, and all ill weeds of error, evil, and neglect grow rank and ugly there, I dare forgive myself that error, sin, and sloth and foolishness. This is another day! And flushed Hope walks adorn the sunward slopes with golden shoon. This is another day; and its young strength is laid upon the quivering hills until like Egypt's Memnon, the grow quick with song. This is another day - are its eyes blurred with maudlin grief for any wasted past? A thousand thousand failures shall not daunt! Let us clasp dust; death, death - I am alive! and out of all the dust and death of mine Old selves I dare to lift a signing heart and living faith: my spirit dares drink deep of the red mirth mantling in the cup of morn -