James Madison University - Bluestone Schoolmaam Yearbook (Harrisonburg, VA)

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Glimmer A star peeks in my window every night, And when I feel it shining on my pillow 1 turn and look to find my lovely star. But when I gaze, the sky is blue and void — No star, no gleam. Some trick was played upon me ! I turn my head away in secret sorrow, And there my star shines whiter than before. Rondeau The snow lies deep in Blue Ridge hills. It buries gently woodland rills And trees and bushes, gleaming white. ft blankets all my world tonight And covers soft this heart it chills. The sifting snow in silence stills Each shattered bit. So grind the mills Of gods. On every dreamed delight The snow lies deep. The love that brought my heart such thrills Now stabs it through with anguish, kills The lingering flame and puts to flight The soul of beauty. Small and slight. The sunken grave so slowly fills. The snow lies deep. — Sarah Lemmon [213]

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Grief Let me sit in the sun And polish my brass howls Nor think they once reflected Cream-petaled roses, gifts of love, So often now they ' ve held Rue and rosemary. Lonely Thoughts Black beyond blackness of night Or of blindness are they, Lacking the hope of dawn That lightens the one Or the imagination that colors The other. Pressed within some safe receptacle They ferment And give off an acrid fragrance. Silenced to all but one Pair of ears, The ' quiver and send up to Heaven The shrill monotony Of self-pity. —Dorothy A. Martin [ 212 ]

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Patchwork THERE are some beautiful pieces in my college patchwork quilt. Some are delicate, fragile colors, soft blues and pinks and greens, the color of new grass. They are the sacred memories about which one speaks in a hushed voice, or does not speak at all. Some of these deepen into lovely hues, azure and rose and sea-green, along with development and growing experience. And some of the pieces are the vivid reds and flaming purples of the dying sun as it gloriously suffuses with brilliant color the white clouds in a blue sky above bluer mountains. They are the experiences which will always stand out clearly in my memory — a high point of achievement, the touch of a comrade ' s hand, the discovery of a kindred soul. Some of the pieces in my quilt are tiny, and some are very large. Some have queer, accidental shapes, and some have beautiful outlines. The variety of size and contour makes it all the more interesting — this quilt of mine. Yes, it is a gorgeous thing, and its riot of color seems almost to glow with life and youthful vitality. But it is stitched in black — the sombre thread of failure and discouragement. Death THERE is an atmosphere of aching hearts and painful self-restraint in the long, low farmhouse, with its towering trees which have protected it for two centuries. There is the multled tread of people hurrying to and fro and a vague unrest which comes to a place where black Death has claimed his own. In front of tbe house already are many cars, and in the back yard is a group of Negroes, with bared heads, come to pay their last respects to the best-loved man of the community. In the house are many tight-pressed lips and tear-blurred eyes that are the veil of grief-shrouded hearts. Rut in one small room there is a wonderful peace and calm. This room is fragrant and colorful with many, many flowers. On his last couch, luxurious in its gray- ness, like the silver of his hair, lies a sweet old man with lightly closed eyes. A breeze slightly ripples the transparent cloth above his head and he seems t( i breathe easily in pleasant slumber. Let everyone tread softly here : Columbus Pumphrev is asleep. —V. K. S. £214]