Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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Song of the Stream I know a deep and cooling spring That trickles away, such a little thing, Rippling and dancing o’er the stones With a hundred melodious soothing tones; Stopping a moment, but ne’er to abide; ’Neath the out ' flung roots of some giant tree, Cooled in some shadowy deeps may be, Warmed by a dance o’er a sunny rock ’Till it murmurs in fairy or elfin talk; Leaping from rock to rock below, Seeking a level where it may flow, Leisurely twisting and winding along, Hearing and answering the thrush’s song, Languidly breathing the flowered air, Whispering low in the rushes there, Broadened and deepened all along By numberless brooklets that join the throng, Each seeking each in close embrace; At length from the distance a murmur grows, Stilling the murmuring stream that flows, To silence as it nears the sea, And loses itself in eternity. — Robert Clogston, ’33. Of Dearest Worth ' J ' HESE are the things I hold of dearest worth : Light of the western sky With long white clouds floating by. The white ' winged bird in its flight, And the peace and solitude of night. The mysterious quiet of the hills, And the passing murmur of little rills. The catching sound of drops of rain Beating upon the window pane. The white ' Capped waves upon the sea, And the tall splendor of the tree, The twilight and the darkening blue, And the wonder that such things are true. — Gertrude Berry, ’32. 17

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lire, and star shells burnt paths of red scorching fire across the blackened sky. The negro stood at his master ' s side, gazing in awe at the painting before him. Slowly Martin dipped his brush and wrote, “Wings of the Night. —Robert Laite, ’35. Storm Dreams W HITE fingers of fine snow flash ghost-like across the blackness of the road. Cars like burned-out comets, with long white tails, fly noise- lessly by. Inside my car there is comparative comfort — of the chilly sort. The satisfied and satisfying hum of the motor lulls me into semi-consciousness. The white dust grows deeper — the warm eyes of houses look like square patches of yellow on the snow. How good is a fire and friends, and warmth of body and soul within four well-beloved walls! Thank God every wanderer finds a home sometime — somewhere. As the dream grows, the hands guide the wheel instinctively. Mechan- ically the foot seeks the brake and the vision, like a vivacious spirit, goes leaping and bounding from past to future, ignoring the present. Old loves are remembered. Old snatches of old songs that once had poignant meanings come welling up from the heart and are sometimes actually expressed and sometimes lost in the throb and purr of the motor. Even sadness when it is passed is sweet. Beautiful day dreams! Thank God we do not truly expect you to be realized as we conceive you. The joy of fullfillment would be too great for us to bear. And so I dream as the snow sifts in through unseen and unsuspected crevices, and the foot grows numb upon the accelerator, and the car sweeps on, leaving eddies of white mist upon the black of the road and my dreams awaiting realization. — Gertrude Berry, ' 32. 16

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My Kind of Art I love the sea — the dark and bitter sea, And the surf along the shore; I love the tides that come and go, And the storms that come before. I love the twilight and the grey dawn, The rocks and the trees in the lane; I love the splendor of a high hill, And the laughter of the rain. I love to sketch a clouded sky, And a beauty that wells in my heart Of people, and life, and all these things That belong to my kind of Art. — Gertrude Berry, ’32. I Don’t Know Why I don’t know why I want to stay Out in the woods at the dawn of day, Or walk ’neath the moon over fragrant hills, And listen for notes from the whip-poor-wills. I don’t know why the sky seems bluer, Or the clouds that float through it seem fresher and newer. Or why the scent of the new turned sod Makes me realize the power of omnipotent God. I don’t know why the pines rejoice With an audible, happy, crooning voice. I don’t know why my heart should sing, Unless it’s the call of awakening Spring. — Robert Clogston, ’33. 18