Elmira District Secondary School - Oracle Yearbook (Elmira, Ontario Canada)

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The hephelza Uunior Prize Poeml Here comes the shepherd, swinging his crook, And on his face is a peaceful look. He lov-es to care for his helpless flocks, Which wander afar among the rocks. Along his side runs a faithful dog, V Which has guided the sheep through many a fog. He loves his master and obeys each call, Would he forsake him? No, not at all. The sheep from the fold will not go astray, As long as their master with them will stay. Should one wonder away out into the cold, The shepherd will bring it back safe to the foldf Each day as the lonely pathways are trod, The good shepherd feels the presence of God, And all around him Nature's beauty Inspires him ever to faithful duty. VERNA HORST, IX A SP- etga of me gt., They leave their base all dark at night, They haven't even a shining light To guide them through the storm and strife, As they fight to preserve our way of life. They travel on through the heavy dark- ness, To sow their death though it seems so heartless, They level the ruthless machine of war, And shake the fo-rtress to its very core. Destructive eagles in fighter planes Guard heavy bombers o,er rough sky lanes, And when the enemy comes up to fight Their guns spit death for truth and right. These valiant eagles of the sky Will bring us Victory by and by, But we must all work overtime To pay the Nazis for their crime. GEORGE LEE, X B so 'lhe Clftfisfs Artist, what do you paint? I paint the blues of crystal ponds, The violet heather, bracken fronds, I paint the summers' azure sky, The fleecy clouds that in it lie. Artist, what do you paint? I paint a scene of beauty rare, Of whispering trees and flowers fair, Of reed-fringed pools and gurgling streams, - And pictures of the pale moonbeams. Artist, what do you paint? I paint the merry girls and boys, The babies playing with their toys, And pictures of a happy throng, Singing as they go along. Artist, what do you paint? My brush portrays a battlefield, Brave men whose very lives they yield That we a better. world may know, Hate turned to love, to friends our foe. BEVERLEY BRICKER FLORENCE ARNOLD, IX A

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gvvg 5---Y-Q A -it-'www -Tm, v,-, ,,- ,,,,,,,, The Tfzue fight CNet entered for contestj There is a courage in free hearts to-day . . . The blood that pulses, singing in free veins, Renders a melody of purest strains, The mighty, stirring music of this lay Kindles in F reedom,s sons a burning zeal, To aid the conquered, to relieve distress, To weave a bright new robe of happiness, The warmth of which the whole wide world may feel. Their purpose is before them as a star, They will not now from their revenge be swayed, Their cause is just-the tyrants must be paid! Freedom must reign in lands both near and far. T hey'll conquer, for they bear mo-re than the sword g Within their hearts there shines the light of God. --VIVIAN HOFFER, XIII fs- winfez an Get o-ut your hoods and ear muyfs, Your mittens red and blue, Your ski suit and your overshoes, Your sled and ice skates too-. Get out your warmest blankets- To spread upon your bed. Go find the books you like to read Beside the firelight red. .lust think of all the winter things 'That are a lot of fun. For February is here again And winter is almost done. Doms WILKEN, IX B 70 6119 ldna England,the brave, the staunch, the free, W e solemnly lift our hearts to thee. We'll fight with courage and with might To hold our land so fair and bright. Together we'll rule hand and hand, Our banners fly on seaand land 5 We'll shake those cruel men of steel And show them what we say is real. England the brave, the staunch, the free, We're proud to be a part of thee! We'll change the world from dark to light, And show those men that right is might! J UNE LU'rz, XI pak, HV-. The Rose So pretty, so scented, so gaudy, so gay Is the bright little rose at the break of the day. As the sun rises righer in the bright southern sky, The rose may be heard to give a wee sigh: My colour is fading, my glamour is going, But my scent is still sweet, so there,s no use in crying. Towards evening 'twas cooler, the rose was revived, But of its bright colour it now was deprived. From a beautiful red to a faded dull white, The rose was transformed by the sun's dazzling light. Though her colours were faded, her petals all torn, Still her beautiful scent by the warm wind was bome. JACK MOYER, X I 81