A B Davis High School - Maroon and White Yearbook (Mount Vernon, NY)

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The City-Across -The-River The gaunT wharT STuck ouT inTo The river Like a sore Thumb. DesolaTion BreaThed upon The windowpane OT The nighT - and The Tog rolled in. Shrouded Tug-boaTs Slipped soTTly Through The murky misTs Always ouT OT reach-l ouT OT reach. BuT he kepT hoping l-le was iusT a homeless waiT STanding wiTh gleaming eyes AT The edge oT The wharT. l-le looked down aT his splinTery, spindly legs And his sTomach l3loaTed wiTh hunger . . . . . And waiTed Tor The boaTs To Take him To The CiTy-across-The-river. GreaT ciTy! l-le could hear The muTTled laughTer And The music And The gay voices! This homeless bag oT bones Wifh The gleaming eyes Prayed Tor The boaTs To Take him There. The disTanT lighTs SiTTed Through The Tog And beckoned To him-- A soggy skeleTon, Bare, Shivering and cold, l-lis eyes Burning like live, glowing coals In The sunken hollowness Tha+ was his Tace. And he prayed! WiTh all The hearT ThaT was leTT in him I-le prayed For The boaTs To come To Take him There! --There TilTered Through The misT A deep-ThroaTed whisTle. IT was calling! BuT The Tog. . . so Thick. . . he couldn'T see. . l-le sTreTched ouT his bony arms In a helpless, hearTless plea And Tried To push aside The weT veil. IT only he could see. . . only see. OIZZO

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A Villannelie The moon sTood still To speak To me, And over dainTy Tear-drop dew She spread her beauTy quieTly. The wraThTul cliTT suppressed The sea: The ocean mimicked morning's blue: The moon sTood sTill To speak To me. The dawn-grass whispered wisTTully AbouT The violeT's billeT-doux lShe spread her beauTy quieTlyT. She sTopped To resT by The linden Tree, And silver shadow siTTed Through. The moon s+ood sTill To speak To me. And so we sTood There, iusT we Three, i and The moon and The morning dew. The moon sTood sTill To speak To me. She spread her 'beauTy quieTly. Elizabeth Gips I Twilight The hillside is powdered whiTe wiTh driTTed snow. Lonely and bare, one Tiny maple Holds on iTs black Twigs Ten downy and sleepily-nodding sparrows. TwenTy sTeps away, iT's merely an eTching - black on whiTe: Pussy-willow Sprig . Giulio D'Angz'o An Autumn Evening How sTill iT is! Edged wiTh The Tang oT cold: The icy sTars sTare Trom a blue-black sky: Long pasT, now, are The days when Thunder rolled, When in The woods we heard The nighT-bird's cry. The brown leaves drop, and lie upon The groundg The homely crickei' now has ceased his chirp: The Toad and 'Coon Their winTer homes have Tound To sleep Till Spring shall WinTer's reign usurp. The TrosTy moon looks down on dying EarTh, BUT even yeT her pallid beam doTh say, Nay, Triends, puT noT away your mirTh For I shall glow again, some oTher day. Daphne Stones 0 I2I 9

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l-lis hearf beaf wildly! Franfically, he plunged info fhe wafers below! Oh, how his eyes gleamed Wifh hope And faifhl The boafs. . . had come fo fake him. .. home. . . ! The sfruggling form never reached his boaf, Buf Mofher River fook him in her arms And rocked fhe fired child fo sleep. She bore him fo fhe ofher side- To fhe Cify-across-fhe-river. Langdon J. Collier Yamantalca A pof-bellied idol, girdled wifh forfy bleeding, horrible heads. his hundred arms grasping insfrumenfs of 'rorfure and deafh, his gaping moufh lined wifh green and crimson fangs, his iaws dripping saliva and his bulging eyes filled wifh violence. Yamanfaka, Tibefan king of l-lell. You may laugh af his squaffing sfance and his grofesque feafures when you sfand in fhe corridor of a museum surround ed by amused friends, buf go fo him yourself, alone, when fhe day is waning. You will see 'rhe shadows play fricks on his brillianfly carved and colored fealures. You will affempf fo laugh again buf if is hard fo be filled wifh humor as fhe lighf flickers soffly and his eyes reflecf fhe lighf info your own. Your smile will vanish. Your cheeks will pale and you will sfruggle fo draw your gaze from fhose bale- ful orbs fhaf gleam insidiously. No sound breaks fhe sfillness, no friend who laughs breaks fhe spell. Those arms each become a menacing weapon fhaf seeks fo grasp and formenf you. You cannof draw away. l-lis feafures now are alive: his pof-belly wiggles: his weapons iangle and his iaws drip ominously. You are fransfixed, gazing, gazing, deeper and deep- er info fhose merciless balls of hafe fhaf affempf fo mimic eyes. They are more fhan eyes, fhey are windows 'rhrough which you see an Orienfal purgafory: 'lhe weird. unspeak- ing forms of human sinful gods: war, famine, hafe, greed and jealousy: fhe lurid, hideous demon forfurers, servanfs of Yama, and fhe anguished, wrifhing shapes of souls in formenf. All fhis in fhe eyes of Yamanfaka. The sculpfor has done his work foo well. This fhing is alive. if wrifhes, if fwisfs and screams fo a hellish dance macabre. To your dismay and horror, fhe fapesfry behind fhis monsfer, depicfing all fhe hells and punishmenfs of a La- masf sinner, is now alive. Each ghasfly figure in fhe woven clofh is moving like fhe inha- bifanfs of a foy world. Buf fhese are no foys, fhey are servanfs of Yamanfaka coming af his bidding fo seize you for your blaspheming. Wrench yourself away, run, run, run, back info your lighfed world. Once safely fhere your eyes cease fheir sfaring and your hearf sfeadies ifs beaf buf your brain furns fhe quesfion over and over. Was if fhe shadows fhaf made Yama and his courf dance, a producf of your imaginafion. Of course Yama was iusf an idol. and fhose lighfs cerfainly played fricks wifh his feafures, you could have sworn fhey moved. Nofhing buf imaginafion yef, buf ... . . . . . . .. could ........... Impossible! This is fhe Twenfiefh Cenfury. Yef? Was if fhe shadows? TVaIter Fairseruis, Jr. 0I230