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

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 21 life at its worst, and it is pathetic to consider that from the unhappiness and trials of many authors has come the poetry which, as Keats has said, must “be a friend To soothe the cares and lift the thoughts of man.” Millions are poor, millions are diseased, millions suffer at the hands of fate, but only the superman, only the man who is above the ordinary, extricates himself from the mire. Such a man is every great poet. The poet with his love for the aesthetic is God’s sympathetic listener. To him God is not obliged to perform miracles to prove his existence; for the poet under¬ stands it through the beauty of nature’s creations. Just as he perceives God’s hand in the lowdiest of insects, and plants, and trees, so he recognizes the divine guid¬ ance in Fate’s operations. As such he accepts them, as he would an eruption of the earth or a tidal wave. He bows with resignation to Fate’s commands and proceeds to do his best for the world. And to-day, in the twentieth century, at a time when civilization is supposed to be at its highest, we need the poet more than ever before. The struggle for hu¬ man existence is becoming harder every day. With the advent of every new soul the ratio between consumption and production is disturbed. Man can no longer feed himself with his two hands, so he employes machines to aid him, and still he must toil harder and harder to keep himself alive. Such a struggle is a fatal one; for in the pursuit of material well-being spiritual welfare is neglected. Long con¬ tinued labor deadens the aesthetic senses, and when these are dormant, people be¬ come sordid in their deeds and thoughts. The more sordid they become, the nearer to the animal they approach and this approach marks the decline of civilization. Ancient culture flourished only when the people had sufficient leisure to in¬ dulge their sense of the aesthetic. In “Cargoes” John Masefield shows us in a few well chosen verses the contrasts of three stages of civilization: Quinquireme of Ninveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and s-weet white ivine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the channel in the mad March days With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road rails, pig lead. Firewood, ironware, and cheap tin trays. The last stanza gives us the true picture of this sordid, commercial age; dirty steamers loaded with coal, timbers, cheap tin trays, symbols of utter necessity, of ceaseless exertion and toil.

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20 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. merit’s treatment of them was ungenerous. Reformers endeavored to improve their condition by instigating legislation, yet a poem written by Kipling accomplished more than their best efforts. He pointed out the value of the soldier. “It’s Tommy this an’ Tommy that; an’ chuck him out, the brute; But its ‘saviour of his country’ when the guns begin to shoot.” The latter line shows the hypocritical attitude of the nation towards its de¬ fenders. Thousands read the poem; thousands were impressed by it, and the British Tommy can thank Kipling for his improved condition. Children in the schools are inspired by poetry to patriotism while the soldier’s heart quickens at the words of the poet when set to music. Whittier’s poetry caused us to abhor slavery while the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” cheered our soldiers as they sought to abolish it. We are touched by the faith of the dead soldiers in “Flanders Fields” and the strength of the soldier’s courage in Seeger’s poem “I have 5 Rendezvous with Death,” while Amy Lowell’s “Bombardment” fills us with horror at the barbarity of war. In every walk of life we are influenced by what we read and through this, the poet can inject into thousands his knowledge, his ideals, and his nobility of char¬ acter. Yet despite the evident good that the poet has wrought, and the benefit he has been to mankind, he does not receive the appreciation that is his due. Living in an age of intense industrial activity where a man is judged by the material ef¬ fects he can produce, we are inclined to misjudge the poet. The word itself sug¬ gests to us a long haired individual with dreamy eyes and unstable emotions; a dab¬ bler unwilling and unable to do manual labor. Unless he acquires a fortune by his pen, we regard him as a failure. Because he writes sonnets t o a flower, we regard him as a weakling and as a rule we scorn him if he treasures his books. If he sings the praises of nature, he is out of his head. Reward comes only after death. This opinion we must recognize as a misconception. A glance at the lives of the great poets reveals the incorrectness of this view. Let us review the life of Milton. A man of genius working zealously for art and country, struck blind in the prime of his career and dying the greatest poet of his age. Although warned of his failing eyesight, he refused to neglect the pa¬ triotic duty he believed was his and continued to serve as secretary to the Com¬ monwealth until the Restoration, when he was able to take up his poetical labors. His eyesight, God’s most precious gift, torn from him, he did not despair or revile fate, but bent him self patiently to the task of seeing the light of God’s goodness through his darkness. Milton’s life is an example of the highest form of practical courage, the courage to fight against the temptation of despair. Many a man would have raged against fate and would have become a sour, miserable wretch, a canker to himself and to those around him. Or let us take Oliver Goldsmith, the divine vagabond. A man whom poverty tossed into all conceivable places and over all parts of Europe, and who never knew where the next meal was coming from or what his next shelter would be. Yet one whose faith in God and mankind never wandered. One who looked at ad¬ versity and laughed in her face; one whose company was esteemed by the wealthi¬ est and most cultured families of England. Alexander Pope, a cripple, poor as a church mouse, and sickly, wrote poems so b rilliant, so artistic that they have endured for years. This list of sorrows and struggles contains the names of many of our greatest poets. Their works are immortal because they were written with the blood of their own bitter experience. The poet’s existence is often a continued struggle with

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22 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. To temper this feverish haste, to ease the utter exhaustion it brings to nourish the poverty-starved souls, we need the poet. We need his clear vision, his calm philosophy, his character, tempered by his sorrows and trials and we need the soothing sounds of his various rhythms to ease our wearied souls. We need the poet to stand in front of us and absorb all the rude shocks of the world, and after he has done so to give them to us in a milder form clothed in beauty, and moderated by his own clear, sympathetic understanding. For these things we need the poet; and as long as civilization exists, he will not be lacking. Civilization began in him, grew with him, reached its glory with him, and will crumble into dust when he is no more. Harry Broudy, ’24. THE GULL. Sonnet. From out the canopied heaven soars the gull, A swiftly growing spot on yonder sky, Rudely piercing the rolling ocean’s lull With a defiant note and screaming cry. Now racing wildly with the roaring gales, He dizzily hovers o’er the billowing seas. His silv’ry pinions gleam like distant sails, As gracefully he beats the salty breeze. With glassy, bead-like eyes he scans the tide, Madly careens and like a comet shoots from his flight Into the seething froth. Now satisfied With laden beak, strives for the azure height, And proudly with his glist’ning, scaly prize Is lost to sight in glowing sunset skies. Lena Bragg, ’24. MARSTON WILLIAM I. Marston William I with flashing eyes and expressive tail heard the approach¬ ing footsteps of the alley tyrant and bolted for the thoroughfare with all the haste of an aristocratic prize-winning Boston Bull. He was just in time to be called into the tonneau of his mistress’s car after his short respite in the heaven of dogdom, the butcher’s scrap box. Marston William, though an aristocrat, had the general feelings of a plebeian. His long line of ancestry could be traced back to some master-dog of the early Bostonians, but pedigree to Marston William I meant nothing but a cage, a ribbon about one’s neck which afforded pleasure in chewing, a great many people and a constant chatter of human voices. Marston William I on chance occasions romped after another one of his fellows when his mistress was engaged, but was promptly called back when his departure was noted. A satin-covered pillow on the parlor floor was the favorite spot of his mis-