Marywood Academy - Veritas Yearbook (Grand Rapids, MI)

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Page Folly-tum 'X' li R l 'l' ,AX S MODERN POETRY In a recent number of the American IVIagazine I read in an article by Joseph Lincoln an incident which struck me as being a truth little thought about. The author tells of traveling through the country on a beautiful bright Spring day. On the seat beside him in the train sat' a man who gazed out of the window, exclaiming again and again on the wonder and magnificence of Nature. Now, on the other side of the track was a car of cattle on its Way to the slaughter house. They were miserably hungry after a long, tiresome journey from green fields, cramped together in the dirty box-car in a piteous manner. The point is-was it exactly right for this man to deliberately turn his back on that which was not exactly pleasing to him, and selfishly take for him- self only the beautiful? The cows are as much a part of life as the delicate flowers, the babbling brooks and the warbling song birds. In modern poetry I think that this idea is being brought out in a forceful manner, for it presents things just as they are, and, in the case of the best poetry it is not in the least offensive or uncouth. As is the case with all new ideas, the matter is carried to extremes with the writing of some poetry that does not fulfill the highest purpose of poetry-to elevate the mind. It is not necessary in being realistic to be rough in expres- sion and careless in subject matter. There are some subjects that were never meant to be eulogized. In the works of Alfred Noyes we have a combination of the realistic and the beautiful. He does not make his gruff seaman or uneducated tram.p speak of the lovely sunset with words of a college-bred gentleman as Tennyson does in his Enoch Arden, and yet one loves his characters for their homely sweetness and appreciates the sunset for the very naturalness of the expression of its beauty. Amy Lowell said, The aim of the poet is presentation and not representation. This is the central idea in the modern poem. The entire credo of the new poet empha- sizes this aim when it sets forth this point: to use the language of common speech, but to employ always the exact word, not merely the decorative word. Poetry, as long as it is beautiful and inspi1'ing will live in spite of its new form and strange expression, for, as Katheine Bregy puts it,'fThe language of poetry is the language of ecstacy-and whether it rest in tradition or break through to experiment, does not greatly matter, if only the beauty and ecstacy remain. That is where the universality comes in. That is what will insure to poetry, even to modern American poetry not the newness of the Happer, but the eternal youthfulness of the nymph. -MARY MILLER, '26. HEAVEN ON EARTH Jesus, I want to feel Thee, Feel the touch of Thy hand. May I place my palm in Thine In heaven-land? Jesus, I want to hear Thee, Hear Thy voice's sweet sound VVilt Thou whisper soft to me In heaven, crowned? jesus, I want to see Thee See Thee in immortal light, VVilt Thou show me this vision In heaven bright? 7 Here in the deep, soft woodland I foudle the violet blue, 192 And feel in its velvety softness The touch of You. I lie in the cooling shadows And hear the song of the bird, Over the hum of the swaying trees Sounds Thy Word. To the brooklet winding and singing IVIy footsteps I idly trace, And find in its depth the picture Of Thy face. Jesus, it is not needful That I die for the gifts I demand, I can feel, and hear, and see Thee In earthly-land, -MARY MILLER, '26. I 6

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X' If I-1 I 'I' .X S THE NATIVE AMERICAN He stood erect, his arms folded across his magnificent chest, upon one of the numberless crags, that formed the perilous path into the canyon. His age I could not determine. He was no mere boy and yet he was not aged, but in between he might be of any age. His tar black hair was held away from his face by a band of beadwork. His eyes were brown, his cheek bones high, and his face was lean and bronzed. I could not say there was no expression in his eyes, but somehow it eluded me. I could not seem to fathom that expression. Those eyes seemed to take in nothing, and yet not miss one single thing, and to me they resembled nothing more than the eyes of an Egyptian Sphinx. He looked relentless, and he had been taught that revenge was a virtue, yet I believe he could be tender, almost merciful at times. I-Ie was an Indian, who, heeding the call of his ancestral blood, had returned to live on the frontiers taken from the Indians. Flight of time prevented me from finding out, of what he was thinking, for almost immediately, as he stood there motionless, night dropped its shades into the lowest depths of the canyon. -HELEN MCKENNA, '26. 'Ili' 'Wk SSS THE SLONV DEATH OF DAY lVhat a wonderful camera is the mind. This sensitized plate takes pictures that could never be painted nor be expressed by the most eloquent orators. The picture that was developed in my mind this evening as I sat in my garden was the slow death of day. Could anything be more inspiring! I was sitting in a rustic chair, under an enormous elm, facing the direct west. Slowly and timidly to the measure of God's hand, approached the twilight. The sky changed from an excessive azure, to a royal purple in the southwest, and in the direct west, black were the trees outlined against the dandelion sky in which the sun lingered. Then as a ball of fire, the sun descended from its throne, and as it sank beyond the horizon, blood red rays blushed across the sky. Gradually, but surely, a transfiguration took place. The sky seemed to be an ocean of outflowing radiance. Then, as if a curtain had been dropped before my eyes, shutting out the celestial beauty, darkness descended. I felt a tone of sadness, a touch of melancholy, and I was beckoned to an unreal world, a land of dreams, to wait for the glories of the coming dawn. -LYLA MoN'rRoY, '2 8. MIDNIGHT When Dame Time pauses for breath at the stroke of twelve, all the world hearkens to her weary sigh. Her mantle of black over-spreads the earth and hides the sun in its peaceful folds. It is midnight-the hour of quiet. Yet, not for all does midnight suggest tranquility. To the anxious mother, awaiting a son's or daughter's arrival from sogie party, midnight only means anxiety and worry to the maternal heart. To the I . . . . a orer, this ghostly hour brings rest and sleepg but to the student, it only enhances his wildest night-mares of tomorrow's exams or today's rebuff. Midnight favors the h . teac er, in bestowing sweet dreams of her duties well done For the poor sufferin invalid, midnight only marks the beginning of another day of writhing and piain. Yet, twelve o'clock and all is well? -IUILDRED RONAN, '26, '1926 Page Forty-one

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i mi sxfulzliyas ill UH 13 K F it DREAMING . . , . ii Through the Window a cold winter s picture, 3 1 Q a 1 l Boughs with silvery icicles gleamg i YVithin, the warm light of the fireplace E Makes me dream, dream, dream. IE, I , The silence of solitude's round me Save for echoes of faint music sweet, And the drone of a voice in the distance -h From a tired, wind-blown street. , l I . . I The past is an eon behind me, 1 The present is veiled in a mist. And only the future contains me- l The future with rosy hues kissed. f I wander about in its shadows And listen for whisperings of fame. I search on the walls of its temples For the gold-inscribed sight of my name. I pluck from its well-tended garden The roses of promise so red: i . And weave from the tenderest blossoms A crown of resolve for my head. But one thing is hazy and hidden I In the realm of the garden to beg ' For where will its Howers be planted, And where will its pathways lead me? 5 The future is such a time coming, I am getting no closer, it seems. Will the past, when the future is present, Be the subject of memories and dreams? -IVIARY IVIILLER, '26. I FATHER i 2 5 A song was written once about a mother 5 Who was gentle, loving, sweet as she could be. 5 Her good example set the world to sighing: If every mother were as brave as she. It was true-as true asa loving pen could make it, This song about this gentle mother's love. But there's one thing I'1l ne'er forgive the author- Were father's virtues l10t worth singing of? I Linlxlilixzixuiiixuizllnilxii::iiuiIin:Fmmmmiumm:1munuiimumtuimuuiziliunmiimmnnmiiifutiilintiimiinxrliiiiiililiiiiimiixi 1 9 2 6 lluuuuaiuuunliuimiLl11Lnu11Ll1111u:1ltzi1utuiuiiLi1lluiuuunMnmhm muhEhhDimiW Page Forty-three