Latin School of Chicago - Sigillum Yearbook (Chicago, IL)

Page 48 text:

T h r e e P 0 e m s STEPHEN KEELER Stephen Keeler, ex-'33, Yale '38, a more recent student at Latin, who plans to do graduate work at Yale, studying Latin. The clarity of crisp December night Made heaven with each singing star hang close To me. The crescent moon now just in sight Sank fast behind the ridge Where blackened rows Of firs saw-tooth the fine horizon's line. Long Walls of stone curved over each small round Of Whitely-sheeted earth. Their sharp design No longer kept the field from fallow ground, But as they slid across the crusted snow They seem meridians of some rare sphere That held me chained and Would not let me go From where each crystal second seemed a year. With one shrill scream I broke my bonds and ran Out of my icy goal to Warmth and man. Fkvkbk The infinite majesty of the fall Has settled in the hills. Strong-minded be Or else look as a child to see it all With sanity. The beauty of each tree So finely set apart by slanting rays Of evening light burns in my soul. The air Is clear and merciless, and summer's haze No longer blunts those lines. The rare, The steel sharp lines of fall, the line That separates the sea and sky, the curves Of barren hills, the village spire with fine And classic cruelty lay bare my nerves, Come quickly snow and ease my pain Quench flame, blur line, O keep me sane. Pkvkik This spring is so much like the fall, The sky is grey and so's the sea. It does not seem like spring at all, This spring is so much like the fall. The heavy clouds hang like a pall On redly budding maple tree. This spring is too much like the fall When skies are grey and grey the sea.

Page 47 text:

A letter From Hawaii JOHN STUART COONLEY John Stuart Coonley, '16, Yale ,2O, at present with the Dole Pineapple Co. I am just going to write a few words about Hawaii. The Islands are grand from any standpoint. The people are delightful, the schools are good, the climate is without comparison, and the scenery is hard to improve on. It is an excellent place to work and play in. Jobs are decidedly competitive, which means that one has to work harder here generally, than in Chicago, to keep his head above water. But hard work is compensated for in hard play. Swimming, tennis, and other athletic activities supply the safety valve. Winter sports too. It is an odd sight to see two or more couples, with skis on their shoulders, walking to the inter- island steamer in Honolulu to journey for a week-end to the slopes of the mountains on the island of Hawaii. The mountains rise to nearly 14,000 feet and so frequently there is suflicient snow for real winter capers. Each island too, has its own particular charm and points of interest. Hawaii, for its mountains, lava flows, fern forests, sugar, and a 750,000 acre cattle ranch. Maui, for the crater in Haleakala, the largest extinct crater, I believe, today, the valleys, sugar, and ranches. Lanai, the pineapple island, owned by our company, and devoted to pineapple and ranching. Molokai, for its virgin forests, pineapples, and leper settlement. Oahu, for Honolulu, Waikiki beach, scenic beauty, sugar, and pineapples. Lastly Kauai, the garden isle, for its streams, water falls, grand canyon, and again sugar and pineapples. There is something distinctive about each island, they cannot be properly described in writing. My recom- mendation is-come and see them.

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lost Mementns In A Glass Case ARTHUR CUMMINGS Arthur Cummings, '36, Yale ,4O, a recent outstanding student Dust unblown and finely molded masks Are under glass like pauses in the flight Of time and dark and Sun, that gold-pronged loom That spins a cage of light around the World. I look upon the careful dome of glass So like a bubble blown, absorbing all Reflections of today Within the top. And dust in thin and like a templed eyelid, Rendering a songless mystery Upon the case and thus upon my lips. Cerebral dreams remind me of that lady Strangely not forgotten nor remembered,- Dreams like parchment stretched upon a globe Distorted Qaccidentally, it seemsj. With fading breath I feel the sullen fragrance Of the silk-hung air as echoing, A hallowed but nought-soothing anodyne. And faintly ballet-dancers' Whorls of white Revolve in chinese pattern, 'cellos sing So faintly that the smoke-gold light of day Seems not another sense-perception,--no, But rather sound cornmingled with that clean Abstraction of tree-shadows on the blinds. We live and are not hurt for this, the living, Yet we sigh for something lost to night Unrealized in its eternity. And so We cherish all poetic baubles Like those charms and bright-brocaded slippers. Have you age? The golden century-clock Would only see the clouds and sightless suns, And neither vaulted fields not steepled orchards Would respond in acquiescence now. How can you live? Nothing to say have I, Twice-questioned, nor to tell my soul, but this,