Loyola University Maryland - Evergreen / Green and Gray Yearbook (Baltimore, MD)

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THE LOYOLA ANNUAL 19 he sees again the friends whom he has forgotten in his affluence, the enemies whom he has crushed in his might. Then by a miracle of Time he regrets the age-sweetened past; a tear steals down his hardened cheek ; half ashamed and from force of habit, he brushes it away and returns to the present. Upon him who slaves in hunger and in rags impartial memory also attends. He travels back through the years of his toil to the days of his youth, to the days when his future was flooded with the sunlight of hope, to the days when he romped carefree and happy. He remembers the little childish troubles, which seemed to him so terrible, so dark; he re- members his games and his playmates, his quarrels and his loves. As when the dark waters of the ocean are lighted up by the moon, casting a silvery roadway over its softly-breath- ing depths, so over his dark life comes the silvery light of memory; unknown a tear falls; he, too, brushes it away and faces again a hopeless future. Memory steals alike on the hard-hearted and on the good. The man of evil habits looks back to the time when he knew no wrong, when his life was pure and spotless, when he knelt at his mother’s knees and lisped the sweet prayers of child- hood’s kingdom. Strange to say he does not sneer nor smile in scorn; it seems so natural, so peaceful, that he regrets the present, longing for the past. How many years have passed since those days, how many years of erring life; he bows his head in shame; he weeps. No! not idle tears for him. And over across the way the good man, too, looks back, perhaps upon a picture much the same. He too, weeps and blesses the memory that brought those tears, tears which give strength to persevere unto the end. Of course, he who sorrows for a loved one falls under memory’s spell. A face that has crumbled to dust once more comes up to view, once more he hears a voice that has long since gone silent. There are laid before him scenes that have

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18 THE LOYOLA ANNUAL Cribute of movv “ Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. Tears from the depth of some divine despair, Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. In looking on the happy Autumn fields. And thinking of the days that are no more.” (The Princess.) So sang Tennyson as he stood and looked back upon ‘‘ the days that are no more.’’ Do you ever look back, you who read this? Do you ever sigh for the past and drop a tear that unfolds from the blos- soms of memory? Perhaps not now, but when the Autumn comes,- — your great Autumn, you will look back upon the Springtime. As you reap the harvest a tear will fall, “ an erring pearl,” a tribute to the memory of the sowing. What the future holds we know not ; we do know the past, which, like wine, seems sweetened by the passing years, and sparkles in the sunlight of time. Time is a magician, who wraps about the past a tinsel of pleasure and makes it seem more beautiful than it really was. Even to the pains and struggles which then seemed so cold and dull he gives a glamor of delight. We drop a tear, an idle tear; in sorrow that we cannot live those old days over again. To the man of power and wealth, to the man in servitude and poverty, to the hard-hearted, to the good, to the sorrow- ful, to the happy, at all times, in all places, unbidden but wel- come, these memories come, and we pay their tribute of a tear. He who has attained to power and wealth looks back upon the days of his struggles, his heartaches, his disappointments;

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20 THE LOYOLA ANNUAL been hidden for many a day behind the curtain of Time. Somehow or other, a lump rises to the throat, a mist is dim- ming the eyes, a tear falls unnoticed on his cheek. The pass- ing years will take away his sorrows, will heal his wounds, in his happiness memory will again come. She will lead him back to the days of his sorrow. With delicate and tender hand she will touch again the old wounds, will lay bare the old sores and all unbidden a tear will drop from his sorrow-dimmed eyes. At all times and in all places memory comes. She passes with soft, silent tread, and with sympathetic loving touch she tints the years gone by. She calls us back to scenes in the dim recesses of an almost forgotten past; she leaves behind a perfume of old lavendar and rose, and, best of all, — a tear. Edward K. Hanlon, ’09. puff ! (A Triolet.) The smoke wreaths curled, Fantasies sped; King of a world ! The smoke wreaths curled, Care’s tent unfurled, — Age and love wed; The smoke wreaths curled; Fantasies sped. Edwin B. Kelly, ’10.