Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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MOONLIGHT FROM HAWKE ' S CLIFF THE BOBOLINK I stop to lean against a giant tree. I ' m at the top, my long, hard climb is done; And gazing down to earth from whence I came, I wonder how I ' m here, so far above That somber forest, black and far below. Down there ' tis dark, as dark as ignorance, And not a moonbeam penetrates the gloom; And yet from there I started all alone, Making my way along the tangled trails, Unmindful of the dangers lurking near. ' Twas dark and damp — I cannot quite forget The kiss of dewy cobwebs on my cheek. The feel of clinging fern about my feet. The sound of bull-frogs grumbling from the swamps, The frightened cries of wild folk underfoot. At last I reach the ladders, standing stark Upright against the mossy slabs of rock. And there begins my difficult ascent First clutching, slipping, falling, then again I gain my feet and crawl on towards the top. I mean to get there, far above this threatening realm Of choking darkness fraught with hidden fears. For here ' tis dark, yet higher up I know The moon is shining bright, revealing all That merely may be dreamed of down below. At last I stand as high as I can go. I look out, far beyond the forest black And gaze on wonders far beyond my dreams: Vast rising mountains, dipping dells and vales, A silver pit of sand, a mirrored lake. The river, winding ' round its magic course, A wonderland of shadows, moonlight-laced. Created by the trees that grace her banks While slumbering cattle lie at peace and rest, Stirring when the rapids swifter grow. And all is wonderful, and I am here. Where I may gaze upon the moonlit world Forgetting all the dangers and the fears Through which I ' ve passed to reach the top; But still, I know I ' ve earned my prize. Yet never could I reach the top above. If others ne ' er had toiled their way before. The ladders were all made and placed for me And I hac but to climb the slippery rungs; This in itself was work enough for me. ' Tis so in Life: we start in ignorance. And follow in the steps of those before; But many steps we have to take alone And higher we must go for higher gain. Then, when we reach the top, the world is ours. Jeanette Downing, ' 31. Up from the creek, Down from the hill. There comes that whistle, So loud and shrill. The Bobolink, So bright and gay. Sings to the sun, At break of day. In winter time, He southward goes, And leaves behind. The land of snows. When Spring comes back. With sun and rain. His cheerful song. We ' ll hear again. John Hogg, ' 31. EVENING Across the painted evening sky. Behind the hills where shadows lie, A golden orb is sinking slow, Tinting the clouds with amber glow. The gentle zephyrs whispering near Dispel all terrifying fear. And Night in mystic mantle dressed To all the world gives peace and rest. Richard Hayes, ' 30. BOYHOOD DAYS Boyhood days, Joyhood days. Better than all earth ' s gold. But the time you feel their longing steal. Is when you ' re growing old. Ruth Surrette, ' 33. THOUGHTS 1% is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not where, Going through meadow and village, one knows not whither nor why; Through the grey, light drift of dust, in the keen, cool rush of the air, Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift of the sky. And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brink. Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the fox- glove, purple and white; Where the shy-eyed, delicate deer troop down to the brook to drink. When the stars are mellow and bright, at the coming on of night. Andrew Mansfield, ' 32.

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R2l 5 J4. L ; 1 U 0 POETRY THE PRINTER Pick and click go the type in the stick As the printer stands at his case; His eyes glance quick, and his fingers pick The type at a rapid pace; And one by one as the letters go, Words are piled up steady and slow, Steady and slow. But still they grow. And words of fire they soon will glow. Wonderful words, that without a sound Traverse the earth to its utmost bound; Words that can crumble an army ' s might. Or treble its strength in a righteous fight. Yet the types they look so leaden and dumb, As he puts them in place with his finger and thumb But the printer smiles, By chanting a song as the letters he piles. Oh where is the man with such simple tools Can govern the world as I? With a printing press, an iron stick. And a little leaden die. Say, where is he, who may he be That can rival the printer ' s power? The printer still grows, and God only knows When his might shall cease to tower! George Curley, ' 30. LIFE ' S CLOCK The clock of life is wound but once. And no man has the power. To tell just when the clock will stop. At late or early hour. Now is the only time you own. Live, love, toil with a will. Place no faith in tomorrow. For the clock may then be still. Ruth Surette, ' 33. Joan Foster, ' 30 THE RAIN Silently, softly, comes the rain Shrouding in gray each hill and plain. Dripping off leaves all glistening wet, Down through birches ' thirsty net. Fine as mist and without sound. Noiselessly sifting down to ground. Clarence Doore, ' 31. DAWN The grey-robed clouds on eastern hills Are softly gliding from their beds. In ecstasy they raise their heads. With silver down, the sky soon fills. For Day is opening its eye. And as the Sun ' s great fiery face Comes peering, all the grey clouds race. With master brush Dawn paints the sky. Bright dyes the phantom artists use To give those gleaming, gorgeous shades, Which look like fire that slowly fades And brings the Day in brilliant hues. Elizabeth Ridlon, ' 30. BOOKS Books are sometimes boresome things. When we have studies drear. One feels his head with wisdom ring. And brains begin to sear. Books are sometimes pleasant things. When we make them our friends. Some vision of their message clings When life its sorrow sends. Books are always friends or bores, Whate ' er may be our mood. A treasure full of gold is yours. If books have been your food. Donovan C. Taylor, ' 31.

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SPRING SONG HAMLET O Mistress Spring, where can you be? We ' ve missed you for so long; We ' re waiting for your quiet step And yearning for your song! O luckless, hapless youth, why did The unrelenting fates so harass thee? Thy sole desire in life was but To learn the undisputed facts of sage. The world is wrapped in dreariness, The birds no longer cheer; We ' re waiting for your youthful touch To warm the coming year. So far off in the distance now, • Your graceful form I see; That I ' ll just drift to dreamer ' s land Until you waken me. Elizabeth Chartier, ' 32. MARCH WINDS Mad white caps whirl across the seas And ships fly onward with the breeze. The trees and bushes bend and sway While winds contend in mighty fray. The windows of our houses shake And tremble ' til it seems they ' ll break. The sun looks down upon the scene With laughing face and jolly mein. Our hats and papers blow about — That wind ' s a nuisance, there ' s no doubt. But still we have a merry day In March, so playful and so gay. Elizabeth Dellinger, ' 30. CLOUDS Here and there are fluffy clouds Floating over you, And they seem like pillows piled On a quilt of blue. Softly drifting o ' er the hills Watching sheep at play, Feathery and huge they roll Places angels pray. Often do their shapes they change Like a young child ' s face Sometimes looking like a lamb. Others, like some lace. Jean Butters, ' 31. FIFTY RINGS Pull fifty rings of the purest gold. The dearest rings that one can hold. Each ring fits on a lady ' s finger; Her hand among them loves to linger. What are these fifty rings so rare? Just tousled locks of baby ' s hair. Henrietta Bartnick, ' 33. And yet, when thou wert all prepared To follow up thy rare propensities, A burden wont to stagger men Was placed upon thy inefficient head. Richard Hayes, ' 30. LIFE (ModeUed on the Old English) Our life is a candle. The wick, our soul. Our hopes, the flame — Flickering up brightly, Then waning — while Slowly, but steadily Our life candle burns, Burns lower and lower. One last flare of hope — We dwell on the past For one fleet, fading moment And then — the flame goes out Eleanor Hayes, ' 31. JUNGLE SONG Savage, shrieking, wild. Untamed jungle child. Music ' s throbbing note Born in husky throat. Stamping golden feet Thrill to gloom-filled heat. Swaying, darkling girl. Jungle dancers swirl. Slinking, crawling shapes, Monstrous man-like apes. Moving to the beat Padded hairy feet. Native dancers croon, To the dusky moon, Till that haunting song Dies and fades ere long. Ruth O ' Connell, ' 31. NIGHT A thing of beauty is a winter ' s night When the moon above is shining bright. And kindly earth so far below Is covered with a sheet of snow. But better still, I like to see A summer moon so «ilvery, Sending down its glowing light. Upon a world of darkest night. Edward A. LeDuc, ' 33.