Bennett High School - Beacon Yearbook (Buffalo, NY)

Page 11 text:

.N NX f- l ix .X f WEB ylfd l 7 95j ' R ,, ,A 0 .51 .Sll J 'X, ix x S IM T' I Q N j T X K I ' i ' r l ' V ' Rhapsody Orientale By Laura E. Salisbury The moon looks down upon a garden fair, And is enchanted hy the picture there. Orange blossoms touched hy gentle winds Waft forth their heavy perfume, rare and sweet. A fountain tinkling midst a grove of trees Drips coolly on a dragons slimy hack, A green jade Buddha stares into the dusfg His red eyes ever gleaming halefully. From out the shadows slips a maiden still, Dark haired, and almondfeyed, and beautiful. Her lover follows, tall and strong, and straight, And listens as she speaks in accents low: Go now. Depart from me forevermore. Grieve not, and think not of thy lovc for me, Nor mine for thee. Forget me in thy work, Seek solace in whatever way you will, And now, hegonef' He clasps her in his arms Then vaults the wall and vanishes fore'cr. s The moon looks down upon a garden fair And is enchanted hy the picture there. She cannot know that cruel fates decree This maid he married to a man unknown: One chosen for his wealth hy parents stern. Nought can he done, suhmission is the law. The maiden glides away and all is o'er. The moon looks down upon a garden fair And is enchanted hy the picture there, Bells Clanging hell, striking terrorf-FIRE. Silvery hells, gay, happyfsleigh ride. jangling hell, shrill, insistentfftelephone. Bells of peace, Christ is horn fChristmas. Old hell, rings no more, cracked-Liberty Bell. Golden chimes, pealing out- -WCSfH1iDiStCf. Bothersome hell, eternally tinklingf- in EL study hall. Laura E. Salishury.

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8 cege ,eenneff Beacon The Vagabond Strain By Robert L. Hanna Theres a song in my heart that is lonely and sad, And it needs but a chord to awaken the strain,f And its echoes are dismal, and yet they are glad When they speak of the fastnesses where I might reign. And they whisper so softly of far away hills, And keep calling me to respond to the urge Of the wild, and drink deep of the sweet piney rills That arise on the mountain tops, downward to surge. Through the lEyes of a Dish Stacker By john A. Handy HET pile up high-they fall, some break, yes,-but they belong to the school-who cares? A continual stream, different faces, different per' sonalities-in fine, a mixture of typical American youth. They pass by --some careless, some careful, some indifferent, some-there is just no per' sonality. Little do these girls realize how their innermost characters are dis' played by the way they place a dirty, sticky dish upon the tottering pile of other dishes. Little does it mean to them if the stack stands or falls-but yet they show themselves. A stacker of dishes in the cafeteria can't be inf telligent--no-he's just a cog in that humming machine, just another white coat, just a servant, but he thinks, he notices, he wonders-yes, he sees. It is sad that we do not realize how our every action paints our character upon a public screen, it is sad we do not think that perhaps others think too- yes, but it is human nature,--that convenient, proverbial expression is blamed for everything-but it's true. Many faces I see, unfamiliar as to name, true, but as to character, very familiar. I visualize a mental picture of these per' sons, their names are mere signs, but their characters are undestroyable sym- bols in my mind of their innerselves. ox f xj? 'hem -5 'X f,T 17 lsffnfii? ' v. Egg -.ifi,4,,,,. 'EQ' 55? ,-'its ' .:- i ll ji 'qffgjja ga, . p 5q.::Tp:.-ir ,, n:c'..62i' 11QS?Q,gV' '7 -'P 1 'm wh-9,-H1W'1l C l'gg7y,'Lge,'3'3 . .- - az-.. ,, ,. . e..i.1?T' get f---. 3, R 5 . 4-13.-'l.1'C -2 , I

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10 Cege seruneff ieeacoy God's Masterpiece By Alice Eby ILENCE, broken only by the steady lap, lap of the waves Sunset, an ecstacy of creative work, flinging paint madly to cover the vast canvas of the autumn sky. Heated, hushed moments, frantic brush strokes and then,-a masterpiece of God. Comes a dimming of the flagrant, fighting colors of sundown to the wistf ful tints of twilight,-tints that lovers hold precious. The lap, lap of the waves caress the shore, and clouds float in a dream lake,-a silvered silence from which the last lingering touch of rose recedes. Somewhere a loon calls softly and the musky scent of woods and lake en' velopes all. A shimmering blade of darting colors silently treads the rippling water. Only the incessant humming of insects breaks the dusky stillness as we step across the threshold of night. Occident and Orient By Grosvenor VJ. Bissell H, EAST is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meetf' Kipling was right. Our turbid, hurrying West will never understand the sluggish beauty of the Orient, lying, as it were, an uncut diamond, shrouded by the tongues of many nations, and veiled with the mysteries of lustrous eyes and veiled faces. India,f-home of the Taj Mahal, sweltering, heaving with the breath of millions,-China, vague and stoic,--Sumatra, with nearby Singapore,-sensf uous and warm, and evil,-that is the Orient. Ever beckoning the white man to linger and enjoy its languid hospitality, it flourishes its charms, and seems to hypnotize all who tread upon its soil. Its cities, ornate and wealthy, only conceal the laxity and ignorance of the interior, where the wooden flail still beats the yellow grain, and men still practice the evil eye. The Orient, like a great, slumbering giant, still basks in the setting sun of centuryfold habit. Some people are like that. They rest, and vaguely wonder, orientalflike, while others, stirred by the vigor of initiative, forge the upward path, and leave behind sparks of genius to ignite the fires of fame. Those who delay are swirled under by the eddies created as the sucf :esssful sail through the Sea of Life. The laggard and leader 'never meet- one can never fathom the other. So it is with the Orient and the Occident, one inert, the other active,-funparalled examples of retardation and progress.