Castleton State College - Castletone Yearbook (Castleton, VT)

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RURAL TOWN’S SPRING There is always something friendly about rural towns. An endearing quality that’s most apparent in the spring. Muddy roads into town follow turbulent brooks. Brooks that often turn aside to seek a quiet meadow. The maples lining streets are filled with buds. Blue skies with white clouds lined are high over Brown fields, dirt roads and cluster of buildings. Stores are few: perhaps some groceries at a postoffice; An establishment selling Sunday papers, current magazines, and sundaes- The hang-out for men and boys. There is the church with its tall spire over all; The school, and if fortune falls, a small depot By a stretch of black and shining railroad tracks. Mountains surround the village—blue and snow-capped in the distance. The houses are traditional green and white of early New England, Each having a settled, comfortable look, While the stores are a compromise between old and new. Spring has encaptured this old town. Here no factories, no tall buildings, no myriads of people To oppose the mystery of the soft air and nature’s awakening. Here the birds sing, the spring flowers breathe their fragrance In small plots on the wide lawns that will soon be green; Rains often fall to make the fields marsh and the sidewalks gleaming. The spell of rural towns is never broken; The weather steals from one season to another, And the people naturally obey the seasons. —Charlotte Williams HOPE That was the sun Which perished With the eventide. This is the morning; And now the sun Has climbed And shines again. —George Weaver

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UNCONQUERED Oh, to stand upon a mountain top alone Where my inner self and I can meet as one; To stand there face upraised, feeling, knowing All the wonder of rain and wind and sun Upon myself. To forget the world of sneers and pretense—all, To be myself floating free—free To stretch my arms above my head into space And with everything and nothing feel despair and ecstasy Within myself. —Ellen Stearns, ’38 BELIEF What becomes of shooting stars When they’ve left the sky? Do they fall upon the earth, A molten mass, to die ? Perhaps they do,—but I believe They have a place to fill; For I found one once upon my lawn— A golden daffodil! —Francis Coolidge, ’28 FROST BITTEN LEAF A frost bitten leaf Floated down a crystal brook. Little it really knew The dangerous path it took. The stream of life Goes on—where,—who can tell ? But still it flows—on and on— Bearing a leaf that fell. —Edyth Bell, ' 36 sixty-nine

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CLASS POEM We are the hill, crest beaten, Torn by the wind all day, And the long, long sweep of meadow Covered with new mown hay— Wild as the winding river, Still as the pond, deep blue; We are a part of every part, A part of the world made new. We are the rock, moss covered, True to the old, old hill, And the loud, loud crash of boulders, Tumbling, and wanting, still— Proud as the roaring ocean, Meek as the hidden brook; We are a part of every part, A part of the poet ' s book. A goal from the hill, crest beaten. The gold of the meadow sweep, A voice from the winding river, A love from the pond, blue-deep— The strength of a rock, moss covered, The pride of the ocean’s roar, With the wide, wide space of vision And we have the world, and more! —Yvonne E. Florence, ' 31 SECURITY In the Spring Brown hills gather close The baby seedlings entrusted to them, Shielding them from moods of wind With lifted shoulders. —M. Lois Carroll, ' 35 seventy-one