East Lansing High School - Ceniad Yearbook (East Lansing, MI)

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The Ceniad CLASS PROPHECY lContinuedl Portia now is Dorothy Holsapple, And the mighty jury sways she, Corydon is the judge who aids her, Aids her in the courts of lawg Wilma, pretty, shy, and laughing, Learned of every land its language, Learned its tongue and mannerisms, Now First Lady of the Land is, Powerful senator is Bill Giltner, And one of First Lady's best friends, Secretary to this great man ls Ruth Robb, efficient as ever, Willard is a tooth musician, Plays his tunes on young and aged, David is an editor, harried, Dashing off the latest news, lrwyn Robey is in Hollywood, Doing lighting for the famous 4 Second Barrymore, Georgia Shaver, O'er an edifice so lovely, High above the other buildings, High in silence stand these letters, Bankers, House of Pletz, we discern, jimmy Stahle, Rear Admiral Of our country's navy is, while On a farm, to our surprise, Chuck Sutterby now spends his time, Curtis aids the world as doctor, Cures his fellows of their ills, Cures them of their mumps and measles, Coaches them in basketball. Thus departed all the Seniors, All the Seniors, the Beloved, ln the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, From the doorway of the tepee, From the portals of the big lodge. -Louise Muncie. TO A WIDE, POKEY RIVER The sluggish summer stream In languor glides- As dull as dusty green That it divides 'Tis bound by sloping flats, With dwarfed trees, The sun shines dully, murk Prevents a breeze. A useless, hopeless river - Yet the blue Has sometimes echoed here A vision few escape. The 'dream of hope When buoyant springs Have joined themselves and whispered Greater things! Of swift, tempestuous whirl Between the stone Where unclimbed peaks their shadows Cast alone. Upon the deep-cut gorge And giant pines l26l Where surging winds the pale Gold sunshine finds, Someday to leap past clear-cut Banks and straight Through bright and pine-tangled air, 'Til then to wait Forgetting all the flow'rs She might have fed. The moss and blades by which She could have sped. The sand she could have cut And carried swift. The giant oaks that might Their branches lift. It 'twere not hers to be A mountain rill Still she with life some fruitful Plain might fill But I with thoughts as shallow As this stream, Bemoaning circumstance Still wait and dream. -Stella Hazen.

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