University of Windsor - Magister Yearbook (Windsor, Ontario Canada)

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Po etry Happening -- XII As I walked along a beach one day, I heard a little Seagull say, Why don't you come with me and play Out on the frollicking Waves? I turned and looked at him, And he perched and looked at me. I said to him: My friend, can't you see -- I am a MAN. As I Walked through a forest green, I heard a squirrel say, Why don 't you come with me and play Up high in the trees above? I stopped and looked at him, And he sat up and looked at me, I said to him: My friend, can 't you see -- I am a MAN . I walked into a church one day, And there knelt down to pray And said: God, Why don 't you come and stay With me in this World? I looked up at him, And he looked down at me . And then I heard him say, My friend, you see -- You are but a man. By R. A. Brown 65

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Our First Day Here Q The Fearless 17 be -. 'S Are you here too? 3 64

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Happening -- XXII As I walked through the forest One spring day I saw an old man Worn and gray. He was sitting on A fallen oak. I sat down beside him as he spoke Where are you from? He said to me . I am from the land Of the concrete tree . Of steel high mountain, Of asphalt trail, Of aluminum bird, And iron rail. Of neon sign, Of daylight night, Green paper pastures, And pleasures plight. If this you world Is so, so brightg Why come you here Where the only light Is that which is cast By the heavens above, Where the only song Is that of the Dove. Where the trees are but Of imperfect wood. Where Pleasures are few And few are good. I come to this land Where the air is clear Of man and rule, And bigot's cheer. Where the heart is master, Where the soul is free, Where triumph and disaster Are bought for free . I come to find What man has lost, To find some weapon To break the frost, Which hangs like a shroud Round his soul, And prevents him from finding Life's great goal. By R. A. Brown The Wanderer The tired wanderer rose And wearily he trod on Past where the clear water flows Into the blossoming dawn. His hunched figure so bent, Twisted, gnarled, and small, As if he were sent From elfland and all, Lent him a strange air . A mystery sure, With his long, white hair, To him Iwas lured. I offered him a meal And ravenously he ate And in a voice unreal, A tale he did relate . He talked of a stingy land Too busy for love, And for him, no proffered hand, Gnly God's above . He talked of his many good friends, All gone by now, And I knew, as he drew near the end The tale was true somehow. And he left to travel on In the day's first rays And I reviewed his questions And he wandered on his way. My mind his picture holds: Bent, white hair not gray, As he wandered so cold In the new-born day . By T . Broughton