Castleton State College - Castletone Yearbook (Castleton, VT)

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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

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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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THE GLORY OF THE COMMONPLACE When restful eventide is here And day’s stern tasks are laid aside, To moonlit spheres our thoughts then roam, The light of heavenly stars, our guide. To some, enchantment’s spell so sweet Reveals a destiny sublime, Obscuring, for the passing hour, The harsh realities of time. To some, the vision fair Presents a battle fought and won; To others not success alone, But present duty, nobly done. Does not the lowly blade of grass, The small half hidden flow’rlet blue, To seeing eyes, reveal a Power, A beauty, ancient—ever new? Thrice happy he, who in the plain And simple things of life can trace Unerringly, with loving trust, The Glory of the Commonplace. —Margaret Costello, ’28 CREATION The stem of a flower Is so fragile a thing Holding the weight Of much beauty. How proud it must be, Knowing it has produced, Like a mother Holding her lovely child. —Hilda Green seventy-two