Castleton State College - Castletone Yearbook (Castleton, VT)

Page 83 text:

VERMONT With shrines your trail is bordered, I, a pilgrim, have my own— I pause and worship your beauty In my fastness, alone. —Elizabeth Leonard RAIN LONG WAITED FOR Sharp expectancy hung over the village. They waited. A streak of light, A sullen rumble, A torrent of sweet, cool rain. Farmer turns to farmer and smiles .... “Drought’s been broken.” —Alice Carpentier FINALITY Something there is so final About the closing of a door; The raising of a barrier There is no climbing o’er. Something there is so endless About all eternity That oftentime I wonder if You will ever return to me. —Ellen Stearns, ' 38 seventy-nine

Page 82 text:

SONG The river’s song flows ceaselessly, Carried by winds in accents low. It brought to me a melody Both strange and sweet which seemed to know Of life that runs its endless course In city streets, on hills afar, On surging seas beneath a star, Where time and space eternally Weave a magic of a symphony. Wherever you may care to turn There is the making of a song, Pray only that your heart will learn To pass the melody along. Blue distant hill; cloud marvel, too; On every side the word is clear. The songs of nature tell us here Is where life is! And may it be The music comes to you and me. —Frank R. Alex, ’37 MY LIFE My life is like the moon ' s rays, Of things that shine and urge me on, But when I reach for them As for the moon’s rays— My hand is empty—they are gone. My life is like the moon’s rays, Of things I do not understand, Fleet somethings-—glowing—fading And leaving me. then Returning to tempt my outstretched hand. —Greta Larrow, ’38 seventy-eight

Page 84 text:

MAGNUM OPUS Snowdrifts, Whitely perfect, Carved by mystery, You hastened away With your clear symmetry And your sweeping curves. You sped toward the blue vaulted arches Silently, surely—without Even a murmur, a sigh. Perhaps the sculptor, Heaven inspired, Called you. —Helen Hammond, ’27 RASTUS SMITH White folk call me Rastus, and kinda poke fun at me. Hones’ I don’ mind much, But I sometimes wish— That my name was like some white folk’s and not jes Rastus Smith. —Alice Carpentier eighty