Milo High School - Breeze Yearbook (Milo, ME)

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A SYMPHONY OF NATURE As I listen to the Symphony Orchestra Playing some of the most beautiful Music ever written, A Each group of instruments seems To be some part of Nature's creations. . The violins are the merry brooksg The bells are the sparkling dewdrops That fall from the leaves at dawn. The flute is a robin, or bluebird, Or Sparrow, singing happily. A crash of the cymbals! A roll of Theydruml That is the thunder and lightning. The soft, mellow tone of the harp Is the rainbow after the storm. To me this is not music Written by a famous composer. It is truly a Symphony of Nature. y Avis Mitchell ml, srrowsns AND RAIN April showers bring with joy Mayflowers to the little boy.i When in August comes the rain, It's a helper to the grain. October brings the rain so clean But spoils the fun on Hallowe'en. In December the cold rains flow Bringing to all, sleet and snow. Marylin Buck 'hh MYSTERY PATHWAY No one ever treads this roadg 'Tis a path of an unknown mystery, With verdant grass like the sharp blades , of swords And the banded trees entangle o'er. Why is it that no one treads this pathway? It might be the road to Victory. Ramona Smart wt.,

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FRGM BROOK TO RIVER bbl' from the heart of a mighty rock, Merrily ba ing - r , The little stream sings through the forest dense. It rushes and ripples along its way, Still a tiny rivulet, still in the forest so deep It slows its rushingg therefs a light ahead, And the little brook knows not of worldly things. Out into the sunlight it rambles courageously, Flowing still onward, knowing'not whence. As it flows, it grows in size, A And gathers a knowledge of outside affairs. When rocks loom ahead, it quickens its pace, Hopping and skipping over and between 'Till finally spent, it slows to rest. Remembering its journey--the end not in view, The brook, now a river, wearied with travel, Tumbles along to meet what lies ahead. Soon in the distance the sea.can be seen. A journey well traveled is now at an end. Esteiia sytner ml, THE FIRST MAYFLowER A tiny elfin artist, With paint brush in his hand, Tripped gaily, ever striving To beautify the land. He found a tiny flower Just gray with timorous fright, And touched it with his paint brush-- It changed to rosy white. Blushingly it nodded With courtesy remote, And shyly then was hidden Beneath a green leaf coat. The elfin gently kissed the flower And then his course resumed, Through his magic brush's power A The first Mayflower bloomed. A Beatrice Lyford 'LL