Marywood Academy - Veritas Yearbook (Grand Rapids, MI)

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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

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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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In L. V ,i li Ei E11 :W Q4 Vi Lg' E Page Forty-four ,E 3I'2'XQ , . 1 L Who protected that sweet mother from the sorrow That poverty's steel grip would have in store, By slaving night and day to earn a living And keep the wolf from howling at the door? Who sat with her beside the baby's bedside, His arm across her heaving shoulders bowed, And watched with her through sickness, death, and sorrow, The kindest comforter that heaven allowed? VVho kept the kiddies happy with his laughter, Played childishly and unrestrained as they? VVho coaxed unruly ones to nobler actions And taught through love, not fear, they should obey? lf you will search the annals of that kingdom That men call Home -so famed above all other- You'll find that i'Father is the king and ruler, And right beside his regal throne is 'KMother. lt's father's hand that punishes intruders VVho fain would split his sacred trust apart. And I with happy soul and deep rejoicing Thank God for daddy dear with all my heart. WORLD Long ago we fought so bravely ,Gainst a mighty sovereign King, All that we might have sweet freedom, And it's still to her we cling. Then again 'twas civil struggle, Testing if that State so strong, Or if others staunchly builded Could endure through every wrong. Last Cwe hopel but far the worst of any, Came the whole world's crushing blow, Those four years of endless fighting, Battling 'gainst the mighty foe. --MARY NIILLER, '26. PEACE Yes, this nation young and tender Has endured its share of woe, Its own bitter part of suffering: God must have ordained it so. VVhat the future holds before us, We cannot nor wish to sec, Yet, we hope that peace will follow, Peace, sweet peace is now our plea. Now it is not Pax Romana, As was once the mighty cry, But a Pax Universalis, Do we beg from Him on high. -EUGENIA SCHMITZ, ,27 MARY Maryf, Thy Name is worth more to me Than earthly things are or ever could be. Recalling Thy power, Thy purity too, And her who so loved You, my own mother true. -B ERNADETTE DUFFY, '26, 19261 ri