Morris High School - Yearbook (Bronx, NY)

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' . . . the Prettiest Tricks of Words and Words and Words. Words are the strings of the luteg of speech, with which Man has been blessed. Thrust into the hands of an unskilled player, the song is a discord, jarring and unharmonious. Given to the talented bard, they weave themselves into melodies., Our lives are danced to the tune of the music. Qui' deeds are often guided by our words, and our thoughts are expressed in them. Sometimes, there is the hurried arpeggio of 'an impassioned soul, sometimes the muted, vibrant chords of one who has been deeply touched by an emotion. Often the lute seems out of tune to sensitive ears, or perhaps some original, restless spirit will take it upon himself to restring the instrument, and replace the old cords with new ones of his own choosing. Stumbling fingers may strike immortal sounds, while experienced ones may bore us with the perfection and artificiality of the monotonous scales they play. Words are the strings of a magic lute, which each of us must learn to play. K Here is a book of words. You may play with them as you wish. Some of you will blow bright balloons of chattverhbwhichl will tug at their strings like live creatures. But their strengthlis the 'strength of the wind, and soon they burst and only a puckered :skin remains. Some will sew odd patchfquilts, but the blocks will fallapart, for they are held tofgether by loose stitches. Qthers will hew wondrous images out of everlasting rock. Beautiful lines, graceful curves, massive strength will take shape under the facile hand. And these will last forever. It is the thought that is the substance. The words are the tools. A poem is made of words fitted together like the glistening scales of a mermaid's tail. An expression of love ismade of braided strands of Rapunzel's golden hair, so that one can ascend to the crystal tower of her heart. Here is a book of words. What pretty tricks have you? Do you allow your iingers to pluck at the strings of the lute, guided by good, true -thoughts? Or do you hesitate and stumble and outrage even Nature with ugly, discordant tunes? EVELYN POBER Page Three D