Castleton State College - Castletone Yearbook (Castleton, VT)

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

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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

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VOYAGEUR I have set my ship for a distant isle, Across the emerald seas; The way is often hard and rough And misery pays the fees. But oh, it is a shining isle That beckons through the haze, That forms the far horizon line, Of blue and green and maize. And when, through tempests’ noise and din, I hear a call come clear, In joy, my ship will forward spring— In Death there is no fear. —Lillian Wimet, ’33 SNOW Ah! How gently the soft snow whispers At my window pane (As if someone outside Were kissing the glass). Can the snow love fields and trees That it kisses them, too— Kisses them gently And wraps them snugly With a warm white quilt? Can you hear it say, “Sleep now, darlings, Till summer comes again?” —Olav Taffs seventy-six