Castleton State College - Castletone Yearbook (Castleton, VT)

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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

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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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LILACS BY AN OPEN WINDOW Green heart-leaves Were whispering in cool tones— So close to the open window That I overheard and looked with tired eyes To see whence the message came And who the quiet senders were. Their greenness rested eyes Too long held in a book— Yet I searched to find the secret They discussed. As if responding to my quest A breeze was wafted in Bearing the answer in lilac scent— And then I knew their whispering concerned A purple heritage’s return. —Nathelia Sherman, ’35 “REFLECTIONS” (By MacDowell) Thou hero of immortality, O man, Seest thou thy face inscrutable In silvered glass? What enters past the fast-locked gates Of thine own mind? Thy very self, perhaps ? Thine errant, swerving will, Demon curse of old ? A trace of wit, inherited From cold, white bellied snake? A past, evolved from mobile clay And into clay resolved ? A present, meaningful as whirling dust? These concern thee not. Look to the future, Great, Because from dust It creates a world. —Olav Taffs seventy-three