Central High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

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in THE MEAHT 1IILE Summer and “What is so rare as a day in June?” have not, at this season of the year, yet received the thoughts of poetic inspiration. Poets are still lingering over the precious theme of Spring and Life’s beginning. Sophie E. Morgan, in her “Herald of Spring presents a realistic picture ol an early spring flower garden. The bright yellow jonquils are blooming again, All brimful of fragrance, so let us drain Their green and gold goblets, and joyfully sing, While sipping their nectar, a welcome to Spring! “In each golden chalice fond memories dwell, And each shining petal has something to tell Of old-fashioned gardens, where grandmothers’ beds Taught early jonquils to hold up their heads. “Undaunted by March winds, that bluster and blow, They smile and look up, as they swing to and fro; For down in the depth of each glittering cup Are the smiles of the spring-time of years garnered up! • A sincere appreciation of Spring characterizes Clifford Howard’s Sanctitude “My pen adrip with destined words, 1 harken to the April breeze. Thinking to trap the song of birds. The murmured joy of meadowed herds And Clod’s soft whispering in the trees. “But lo! a touch attunes my heart; A heavened communion stirs the air; And I, who thought with course art To play for Spring a minstrel’s part. Awake and fold my hands in prayer. 20

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r A Fantasy THE library door had closed upon the last visitor to the letter-writing contest. Immediately, there arose a soft flutter. From the neat rows of folders on the wall, a medley of gaily dad figures tripped down. The library buzzed with happy voices. Everyone was merry in the anticipation of a great time. Tables and chairs were pushed aside, and the frolic was on. Suddenly the great Caesar cried, “Set on; and leave no ceremony out.” With a lingering glance toward Viola, the Duke Orsino exclaimed, “If music be the foml of love, play on. Thus the dance began. Several numbers had been danced when a great commotion arose in the far end of the room. Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguccheek had started an argument over a dr nk with Stephano, who had been serving refreshments to the best of his staggering ability. Then Sir Toll) and Stephano tussled. “By my troth, quoth Sir Andrew, the f H)l hath an excellent breast.” Festc looked at Sir Toby, “His eyes do show his days are almost done. Hold thy peace, shouted Sir Andrew. Troth, sir, I can yield ye none without words. and off skipped Feste. In the meanwhile ladies had retired to one end of the room. Oli ia sat with her head held in haughty disapproval. Portia turned to Xcrissa and said in an undertone, O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits! I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary. I his from Stephano, who had heard her. The music had ceased. More, more, I prithee, more, called Jaques. And once again the swaying figures glided over the floor. The hour was getting late. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father's,” said Petruchio. So. one by one. the guests sprang back into the I ook over which the judges had made so Much Ado.” 19 Emma Slockmar, 18.

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The Sleep of the Birds,” by George Sterling, abounds in beautiful expressions and inspiring thoughts. Where canyon-waters dimly fall or creep, Where fields are still, or down the mournful coast. They cease from singing, and above their sleep Wheel the wild moon and half the starry host. Linnet and gull, the dove and fluting thrush, Are silent in the reaccepted dark; The patient eagles drowse within the bush, And evening grasses hide the dreamless lark. Surely the night seems long, the morrow far. Lntil the eternal fountains foam anew, And mad with day they see the morning star Linger in light, ere splendors touch the dew. I re man had faith, there were bonds of trust Between their weakness anti a power withdrawn. I he wind of wings, the midnight talon-thrust Knowing of this they slumber till the dawn. But we how often, fugitives of care. Awaken when the night is loud or dumb, And see the solemn altars of despair. And dread the dark, and dread the day to come! While human strife rages in the lands across the waters, it is befitting that the song of Peace should be sung. George K. Woodberry selects this theme lor his reverent ideas: I pray for j eace; yet peace is but a prayer. Mow many wars have been in my brief years! All races and all faiths, both hemispheres My eyes have seen embattled everywhere The wide world through; yet do 1 not despair Of peace that slowly through far ages nears. Though not to me the golden morn appears; My faith is perfect in time’s issue fair. For man doth build on an eternal scale. And his ideals are framed of hope deferred ; The millenium came not; yet Christ did not fail. Though ever unaccomplished is His word; Him, Prince of Peace, though unenthroned we hail Supreme, when in all bosoms He be heard. 21