Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

Page 19 text:

THE REFLECTOR All these are beauty I have heard: Rain on the roof 5 wind in the trees- Wind strumming birch harps in the night, The voice of one belovedg Songs that stir old dreams again, Echoes, the symphony of brooks That sing as they go searching for the seag Utter stillness, the melody The hermit thrush pours out at dusk, The solemn depth of organ tone, Laughter, old chimes that carol Silent Night Across the snow on Christmas eveg The steady pulsing of a plane high in the airg The soft caressing sweetness of a lullabyg All these are beauty I have heard. O beauty, words are futile chains For thy elusive lovelinessg With them I cannot capture thee Or tie thee tightly to myself. But shed no tears for me, thy lover, I am content with what I have. Go dwell in dawn and brook and bird As thou hast ever done . . . I am content. I have a fragment of thee here in memory To keep until I die, when I shall claim All that is thee and thine, my own. VERNON GROUNDS, February 1932. Dust It was here before everything, But it has forgotten. It rubbed on the back of the serpent as he crawled through the Garden It was blown about by the wind with the spices from Cleopatrais hair. It was trampled under the hoofs of mighty war-horses clanging in battle Bloody soldiers kissed it and died. This it has forgotten. But I know That it is ever here, waiting for tomorrow, Forgetting yesterday. Looking forward to a host of tomorrows. And a legion of tomorrows. Always seeing tomorrow, Forgetting' yesterday. D. SCHNEIDER, June 1932. Fifteen

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THE REFLECTOR T0 Beauty O beauty, let me capture thee And tie thee down with words, Before my eyes are shadowed slits, And Time has stuffed my ears with age. For now I know thee well, Aye, know thee with the intimate familiarity of love, Walking in thy glowing glory all the day, Rapturously dreaming dreams of thee at night. But knowing thee and loving thee as well as I do now While youth burns hotly in myself, What shall I do when I am old And can no longer seek thee out In dawn and rose and brook and bird as I do now! Why then . . . why even with good fortune as my guide, If I stumble on thee unawares, How shall I recognize thy laughter Ur know thy soul-entrancing smile, If light is dim and sound is mute And I am old .... O beauty, life will be a mockery, a melancholy thing, If empty hours follow glorious days, Without thee, after being more than friends, I shall be lonely, desolate, and sad, And die at last of grief,-heartbroken. So, beauty, let me capture thee And with apt phrases tie thee down That I may always summon up The loveliness my eyes have seen, The melody my ears have heard. All these are beauty I have seen: Fog, the dim immensity of stars, Hills etched and hills that billow, Day breaking like the chime of distant bells, Mountains blurred by miles, smoke in the wind, Sunshine dazzling on snow, Drifting continents of cloud, Oaks that shadow quiet pools, The genial glow of logs ablaze, Surf surging up to kiss the cliff's gray cheek, Rainbows bridging earth and immortality, Wet grass, the face of a little child asleep, Sheep on the hillside, sky and sundown, All these are beauty I have seen.

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THE REFLECTOR On Mowing a Lawn I ' iii -MIENTHOUSE dwellers may cherish the idea that they are far y Ll superior in altitude at least to the average suburbanitc 1 I I1 Yet though I dwell in one of said despised suburbs no pangs mw .-, , p 6 W .I lm'-J,..m of envy pierce my heart when I compare my status with that of those who pass their days perched atop some mam- moth structure. There is one reason in particular why I am glad I am not an inhabitant of an ultra-modern domicile, for who has ever con- ceived the picture of a penthouse dweller with his coat off, his sleeves rolled up, his brow dripping with the moist results of his exertions- pushing a lawn-mower! The idea is preposterous, of course, for in most penthouses there is scant room for bare necessities, much less for lawn- mowersg besides, there is no place for a lawn. Consequently, a large per- centage of modern America exists without ever knowing the supreme de- light of mowing a lawn. There is absolutely nothing in creation that can compare with the exhilarating joy of pushing a whirring machine through deep, lush grass while the sun beams brightly in the sky and the little sparrows twitter in the trees. Ah, such pleasure passes the power of words. Only the for- tunate few who have experienced this rare rapture can understand why I rave about mowing a lawn. Let me picture a typical session with the mower for the unfortunate, uninitiated majority. Often on a summer morning while I gaze out on the lawn I grow philosophic and think, How rapidly grass grows. An inch a day, it seems. Well, such is life! We all must grow and grow, and since swimming is of great assistance in aiding human growth, I shall swim this morning, while the grasses grow unmolested by the sharp blades of the mower. Well, I may just as well get--. Suddenly a sweet voice interrupts my mute soliloquy, as my dear old maiden aunt suggests, It's a lovely day-for cutting the lawn. Like a mirage all prospects of going swimming fade into a haze of green. Silence is gold now, arguments are futile. With a blithe assent- ing opinion, I gloomily trundle the mower out, after oiling it very, very carefully, and very, very slowly. It makes a grating, grinding racket as I sullenly push it on ahead across the walk. Somehow the clatter alle- viates my feelings a trifle. My aunt hates noises, you see. Again I push the mower very deliberately across the walk, and then repeat the ac- tion. Now, I do feel a little better, but all my former resentment in- stantly comes flooding back when I survey the long yards of green that I must mow. Visions of blisters and sunburn float before my eyes as I finally begin my toil. Up one side, down along the same stretch, up again and down again, now close beside the hedges, now around the peach tree, up along the driveway--so it goes. Strip by strip the grass slides down, little by little without my knowledge I grow more gay. All at Sixteen