Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

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28 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. But if the days are wet and drear and cold And by the fire indoors I needs must stay, Among great deeds, brave knights and tales of old, With kings and queens I wile the time away; So while good tales and poems beside me lie, Let tempests loudly wail, for what care I ? Flora M. Youngson, 1923. WANDERLUST. Beyond the East the rising sun, Beyond the West the sea, And in them both the wanderlust That will not let me be. My dreams soar high in winged flight; In brightest fantasy I roam and roam an endless path, Nor rest, though weary be. I hear the ocean’s luring call, And when the angry waves Beat up against the rocks and shore, The salt air then I crave. The road, I know not . where it winds, Nor where the river goes; The gypsy blood pervades my veins, And through them quickly flows. The blue hills seem to beckon me To lands of mystic charm, To lands where lotus blossoms sweet Give out their healing balm. And now to Egypt’s deserts wide, I wend my joyful way, By camel’s easy, graceful stride, And the howdah’s awkward sway. To classic Greece my steps now turn, Where lakes in silvery sheen Abound midst vales of palm and pine, And fairy woodlands green. To smiling, sunny, dauntless France, Whose old chateaux and towers Seem dull and grey, yet proud of mien From out their frames of flowers.

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 27 tering limbs to dream, especially on the poet’s thought: “The groves were God’s first temples.” Indeed no better place of worship could be found than in the space beautified by God’s own hand and peopled with His own trees. Little do we realize how careless and forgetful people are toward the preservation of these landmarks wherein the lumber is hewn for our homes and for the furniture within our homes. How indifferent we are when we see someone trampling down a little root which would have some day turned into a sizable tree mayhap, for “Great oaks from little acorns spring.” I can remember how four summers ago in the quaint village in the White Mountains, Intervale, I passed through a most beautiful grove of pines. I made inquiries as to their name and learned that the spot was appropriately called “The Cathedral Pines,” due to the beauty of the grove and the soft music vibrated by the pines. Three weeks ago as I was reading a daily paper, I spied the article “Famous ‘Cathedral Pines’ to be destroyed.” Upon reading the article I found the cause to be due to the sudden demise of the owner, his death coming upon him so quickly no will was made. There was a dispute among his heirs and in order to settle the estate, the pines were to be confiscated and the land used for com¬ mercial purposes. In truth the “Cathedral Pines” occupy a space of about one hundred and fifty acres and I learned that a movement is now afoot among tourists and nature lovers who realize the beauty of God’s work to contribute money to buy the famous grove because of its appealing loveliness. The tree has been a help to mankind from century to century, playing its part even in modern times in the recent World War to camouflage and hide our guns and equipment. In celebration of this gift of God Kilmer enkindles ecstasy in the heart of mankind with his lines: “I think that I shall never see A poem as lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast. A tree that looks at God all day And lifts its arms as if to pray. A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair. Poems were made by fools, like me, But only God can make a tree.” Harold Moran, 1923. CHARMS OF GOOD LITERATURE. Shakespearian Sonnet. When summer days are bright and warm and fair, I gather in my arms these books of mine, And in the shady garden hammock there I quietly and peacefully recline; Or wander by the river’s sparkling brim To find some peaceful, unknown, lonely nook And there beneath the cool, deep shadows dim, Peruse and dream o’er my beloved book.

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 29 But oh, for skies of azure hue, To sleep ’neath Venetian stars, To hear midst gladsome, happy dreams Songs of gondoliers. In Russia’s cold and dismal steppes I do not linger there; For warmer, brighter lands I yearn, Where I may feel no care. I climb the cliffs of Switzerland, The Alps: eternal wall. Midst snow and cold abyss of air Up mountain sides so tall. To olive-skinned, enchanting Spain Whose gallant troubadours Pay court to dark-eyed girls who dance To sound of their tambours. I linger long on Asia’s strands, Her jewels rare to see, Who lifts her minarets o’er ground Black with the cypress tree. To many other lands I drift, And wander aimlessly. I tire at last of foreign scenes, My own land long to see. America, I long for thee, Oh, land of liberty, Oh, soil where pilgrim fathers trod, No other land for me. Here brooks, whose lilting music sooths The soul; and rapture sweet Steals over me and gives loved peace And rest to wearied feet. The old ships sail to home again, The young ships sail away, But I have found my port at last, And I am here to stay. Ruth Cheney, 1923.