Castleton State College - Castletone Yearbook (Castleton, VT)

Page 78 text:

MOUNTAINS Misty mountains, damp and drear, Verdant mountains, cool and clear, Barren mountains, brown and blear, Kingly mountains, stately, sheer. All arise from the same old land; Were all fashioned by one Hand. Golden mountains, wonderful Mournful mountains, drab and dull, Brilliant mountains, beautiful, Monarch mountains, icy, null, All are built of little dreams— Inspirations, transient gleams. —Lois M. Bruorton, ’37 THE LADY WHO RIDES HIGH The moon like a silver disc Sails through the dark night sky; The shimmering stars are pale beside The Lady who rides high. Clouds conceal, now reveal Her penetrating light; The tiniest crack and crevice hold Some essence of color delight. Some silent spirit must brighten My Lady’s face each night— Whoever could keep silver from tarnish ? Keep a solemn sphere so bright? —Virginia Handy, ’38 seventy-jour

Page 77 text:

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

Page 79 text:

HAPPINESS Happiness is made of little things; Gay feathers from a pheasant’s wings, Blackberries heaped up in a pail, Grey squirrel on the old fence rail, Moonlight on the trees at night, The sun’s soft, golden, mellow light, A gentle word dropped here and there To let an old friend know we care: Yes, Happiness is made of little things For him who works and prays and sings. —Frank Alex, ’37 A WORD Just a vibrant messenger Traveling on winged feet, Much as an arrow from a bow Toward a distant mark. Does it portend of holiness or joy, Do tears and sound of sorrow Follow in its wake ? Mark you well that flight And the occasion of its sending— For nations rise or fall, Hearts sing or break— At one short word. —Gladys Gage. seventy-five