Gowanda Central School - Valley Bugle Yearbook (Gowanda, NY)

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THE VALLEY BUGLE ANNUAL IL CHMIELIOSO With Apologies to Milton Hence, vain saddening Blues, Of saddest Music and Cupid born, How everyone thou doth abuse Whom sadness doth adorn. How an invitation thou never refuse To visit him in Love forlorn. But hail to thee, Love serene, Most beloved and yet so mean. Thou art more beautiful to me by sight Than the soft approach of dusky night. Thou art gayer than the dancing moombeams O'erlaid with colors of the setting sun it seems. No birds have yet with their songs divine, Described thee and all that's thine. Thou art music, great it be, Always sweet melodies unto me. But Ah! L.ove we know each other well, Better far than words can tell. How could you have done that unto me When I believed and worshipped thee? Ah! F ickle-fickle are thou, Love, Though thou look like an innocent dove. Love, thou hast wronged me, wronged my right And conquered me with thy passioned might. And now here I sit, all alone, The sigh? It's nothing but my own. Now thou hast sent thine plague, the Blues O'er me themselves to amuse. Oh! Love, thou sweetest sweet, Shall I bless or curse thee, Cheat? When thee I wish to forget, to lose I always meet thine companion, the Blues. I find them in the music of the Saxaphoneg Even in Tuba's melancholy moan. Whenever I go, wherever I stay, I find thine Blues to my great dismay. And now my fate is thine, , No more, no more is it mine. Thou hast o'erpowered me Oh, Love! Oh, Love! This I see. No more, no more shall I be free, A Sad, blue, I shall always be. W. CHMIEL -,- c. H. s. -- SPRING WIND The gypsy blood was stirred in me today. The snow was gone, half gone at least, for just A patch was left, the last remains of Winter. And oh, the wind that swept the country clear! That wind roused wander-lust within my soulg I longed for solitude and singing birds, Their joyous notes no longer in restraint, For blue skies, white clouds, tops of wind swept hills. Oh just to walk released from care and thought, To feel the wind's rough breath race through my hair To have it knock me down and pick me up And toss me here and there.--Oh mighty Wind, You've stirred the gypsy blood within my heart! NELL-GRAY W1LLcox ' Qwefii r 3, 1 Gage, ig

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THE VALLEY BUGLE ANNUAL DREAMS I sit here, seeing naught, but dreaming dreams of gold, And the world about me revolves itself into visions. From the Past arises a horde of memories I would fain forget But I can not! The present comes before my eyes, and I view with a spirit humble The things I am doing now- The things I may regret in later years Even as I am now regretting past folly. Close on the heels of the Present comes the Future- The mystic time. For I can sit and dream of what I shall be then. No visions haunt me except the gossamers of shimmering dreams. Dreams of the future never hold the ghosts we wish long dead But revel in what we most desire. And so my dreams of the Future are precious and lovely Because they hold naught but shining, glowing things. I am a dreamer! GERALDINE HAYES 1- G. H. s. T SCHOOL DAY BLUES Once upon a Monday dreary, while mine eyes grew dull and bleary, Regarding volumes of assorted lore, While I nodded, nearly napping drowsily I sensed a tapping, As of some gently rapping-rapping on the school-room floor. 'Tis teacher, dear, I muttered, tapping on the school-room floor Cease that racket, I implore. Ah! Distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak September, VVhen, unsuspecting, I returned for more. Then much to my great sorrow, I found we could not borrow- Could not borrow sheets of paper, it irked me to the core. How would I get paper, if I could not borrow more? In fact, 'twas quite a bore. And now this talk of working, and never, never shirking, Is endlessly repeated o'er and o'er. How I hate to hear prating, of standing and of rating. Why, it sets my teeth to grating, as they ne'er did grate before. As they ne'er have clashed or gnashed before! And it is such a bore! To go back to the tapping- to that unearthly rapping, Which so disturbed by mind before, It ended all my dreaming, my wonderful day dreaming, And weighted all the burdens, I so sorrowfully bore,- That multitude of lessons, I disconsolately bore, Heaped on for ever-more. And our teacher, as is fitting, still is sitting, still is sitting Before the desk, above the school room Hoor, Eagerly I long for Sunday, morbidly I dread Blue Mondayg Always shall I hear the tapping, tapping on the school-room floor Tapping sometimes on the bell, and sometimes on the floor,- Shall this go on for ever-more? RAYMOND BALDWIN

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THE VALLEY BUGLE. ANNUAL A SONNET To the Freshman O, Freshman on that airy cloud, . Come forth from 'neath thy dreamy shroud, Awake and think of days to be, And 'cease thy silly jollity. Your childish days are in the past- Days for success have come at last. T'is time to wake from childish sleep, T'is time to fall into studies deep. High School is no chi1d's play, Classes aren't conquered in a day. F reshmen, there are classes three, . Patiently awaiting thee. But these are mountains, great and tall Which you, to win, must come to fall. WALTER CHMIEL 1- c. H. s. i A STUDENTS PLAINT I was told to sit not set I am to say I'm chawmed indeed,' In our class of etiquette, Instead of using the old creed To rise when Mother enters in Of pleased to meetcha' or hello Or any other of my kin. When I am introduced you know. My spoon within my teacup? Never! The part that infuriates me Nor it is nice nor it is clever Is the fact that an Emily To leave my knife upon the table. Was the cause of all this fuss- And I was told 'twas not a fable. The nasty, horrid, little cuss! NP2LL'GRAY' W1LLcox i- G. H. s. -- DAWN Awake! for dawn is born From the short-lived love of Sun and Moon, And bears on its rays, That which penetrates the soul of slumbering man. It's nativity is 'dorned With such splendors To make the pomp of kings seem sickly. Yet man sleeps on, indifferent To such events, but warm to those Which radiate with dross of gold. The turquoise cradle . Beams amidst robes of downy pink, And on the distant hills, the hoarfrost gleams! Hark! There is music, Nature's own sweet symphony. Feathered throats, Purring winds, Thrumming brooks, All in perfect harmony. And one by one the delicate, tinted flowers Raised their heads, then Suddenly unfold, in profound rejoicing. While the h-ours fly ' The world brightens as the Infant Dawn Grows up to Day. Louisa Puss