Fairfield Community High School - Reflector Yearbook (Fairfield, IL)

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'-'W'-' THE REFLECTOR SENIOR POETRY THE YEAR I think that out of all the year October is the best. It seems to me that all the trees In Sunday clothes are dreised. Just when I'm sure that it's my choice 'Iis then I think of May. The fields are green, the skies are clear. Such lovely days to play! December is a jolly month With Christmas in the air, With Santa Clause on Christmas Eve And snow just everywhere. Now on my mind there flashes March, With every wire and tree, All wearing coats of ice that look Like oiled-silk to me. For Painter God it take a month Upon His canvas-earth To paint a brand new landscape scene And give the world new birth. In all twelve pictures not one has The beauty of them all. The winter doesn't have a show Of flowers as the fall. Now which one really is the best? I'm sure that no one knows. I change my mind the thirtieth day Of each dear month as it goes. -Doris Smith. T0 A CAT Wee, scurryin', hurryin', little lady, Oh, what a panic's in thy haidie! Thou come a' flurlyin' into the ha' Wi' a' the newciel About our friends you tae us a' Bill, Kate, an' Susie! Your business own must gae neglected Till faults of ithers are a' corrected: 'Iill secrets deep have a' been shared You must say on! Till lives of ithers you have blared, Yes, ever' n' anon! -Max Barnard. BLAME THE TEACHER She bide us study fast and hardg We looked into the hall, Marlin explained in great detail: We wondered who'd won in ball. We listened to her patiently, We thought of something near, Like where we'd go, or what we'd do, Not of the poets, oh dear! She gave us tests, we wrote some words, With all our fingers crossed 5 We got our grades, we raized the roof, All hopes for us were lost! She went over, explained, and preached, We knew deep in our hearts, But would we admit defeat, no! Our eyes threw angry darts. She gave in, we took another test, We raked our brains in vaing We hadn't studied, how could We pass, So, she was blamed again. -Dorothy Musgrave. .,.,1 SPRING TIME In early morning when I woke, The smoke coils through the trees The boat lies idle on the lake, The leaves play in the breeze. I hear the song of the skylark As he sings to his mateg The blue jays and the sparrows dart Over the garden gate. The clear blue sky up above Is sprinkled with white clouds, I hear the song of the turtle dove As he sings long and loud. I see the rocks and zigzag paths, The rippling of the stream 5 The water rushes playfully Acrocs the woodland scene. When evening shadows begin to fall And I sit down to rest, The whippoorwill to his mate calls, The sun sinks in the west. -Doris Mae Haegele.

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' ez THE REFLECTOR E'-'-1-' SENIOR POETRY ENGLISH IV Onoe upon a morning dreary, while I studied, worn and weary, Over composing poetry in our English IV. As I Wrote, erased, and rewrote While I frowned, and thought, and fretted, fretted o'er my English IV. T' is some poem, I muttered-for I had my English IV. Just a poem and nothing more. Ah, faintly I remember, it was getting near November, And each and every Senior, wrote a poem as before. For in vain I had tried to borrow fzcm my classmates of tomorrow Prose, blank verse, or poetry, poems for my English IV, For I found no rhyme or rhythm, in my poem for English IV. Only words and nothing more. -Jean Miller. THE MAN OF TOMORROVV A parody on The Man With the Hoe . Bowed by the weight of self pity he 188115 His head upon his hand and gazes down, The brilliance of all lmowledge in his face. On his imagination he believes, The burd of the world is on his back. Who made him dumb to problems that are real? A thing that leams not and never be- lieves? Who has designed and molded this weak spine? Whose were the hands that made his life easy? Whose was the brain that has done his thinking? Is this the Man the Lord God made and gave To build and lead our great and free colmtry? There is no shape on earth more wrong than this And none more useless to the human race. He is slave to little pleasures of life, And he is foe to all that means labor. Awake! O parents of America, How will the future reckon with this boy? How answer his futile questions that day. When he is forced to think and work alone? --Edythe Rheay. A HIDDEN TALEN T I think if God had meant for me To be a. gushing poet, I-Ie surely would arrange to see That I at least might know it. It seems that I would have an urge To write about things lovelyg But I don't want to write a dirge Or talk of stars above me. The stars are slivery, bright, and clear, I love to watch them shining, But alter that I sadly fear, The picture starts declining. Due to these facts, I think it best That I should not endeavor To put my thought in anapest, But leave them mute forever. -Wanda WHtErS. LEISURE With apologies to W. H. Davis What is this school, if full of care, We have no time to sit and stare. No time to sit within our class, To stare at the trees, sky, and grass No time to see the airplanes pass, Os see the dog-fight on the grass. No time to think in broad daylight Of the swell time we had last night. No time to watch the clock until It's time to leaveg so say we still- A poor school this, if full of care, We have no time to sit and stare. -GIHC8 M8.yET. A