Boston Latin School - Liber Actorum Yearbook (Boston, MA)

Page 3 text:

mr ' a CLASS POEM by S. Myles Aronson Now in our going at the edge of springtime and aivakening , the ghosts of years, the shadoiv of things in flight blow back like mist. Poured out celebrations of regret whimper like frightened ivinds, but a silver sense that no songs end runs singing through the body like a secret psalm. Now in our green going, the captured sound of space sings in our ears, sings promise-crammed across a loneliness of touch denied for fear of knowing all too much. We almost laugh — nodding our happiness to let world die into the ceiling of our eyes, yet wanting to test tremblingly the sounds that rush into a chasm of silence. Last things seem tense with being last, but imagination makes the old songs September softly, tinkling like brookivater through the funnel of the rock, till mind acknowledges the shock of world. The ghosts of years are music and aivakening , old songs sifting through memory like leaves caught rushing in some dark and secret river, rushing to the music that time makes ' , present equals past while old songs last. I mi: Oil