New York University School of Education - Education Violet Yearbook (New York, NY)

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To 'I'he Down to the sea you go, my friend, Down to the sea in a ship. You view again the cobalt frame Of Africa's northern tip. You view again Sahara's sand, You search for treasures rare, You walk again with ghostly kings And ghostly ladies fair. You walk along the Corridors Of thousand years of fame, You penetrate the Morocco-land, A thousand years the same. Down to the sea in a ship you go, Down to the sea again To see, to hear, to learn, to know Of places, things, and men. Moods Moods are strange, bewildering ghosts Of other things, of other dreams, That flicker, change and go, like hosts Of butterflies a-wing it seems. Oft times, like sunbeams bright and gay They dance upon your brook of thought While every wavelet seems to play A tune that brooks alone are taught. On a sudden, flowers dieg Their lilting minstrelsy, it fades, And cold, grey snowflakes swiftly fly To still the brook in leaden shades. Moods are strange bewildering ghosts That never seem just quite at ease, They change their homes, their hosts, Like trembling butterflies, like bees. 151 Friend Who ls Going Again

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Washingfon Square Park NTERESTING pictures, beautiful pictures, ugly pictures, pictures-scenes, portraits, caricatures-not in Dresden, Munich, or the Louvre, but in Washington Square Park. The park is a legend of Little Old New York. The barren trees whisper to each other and laugh at the human wrecks who sit on the benches, at the jovial students, at the pensive students, at the nursemaids with their precious charges. They laugh because they know that life is temporary and that time, which we try to overtake, eternal. Three men are sitting on a bench near the Fifth Avenue entrance. One of them is youngish with blond hair and bleary, blue eyes. He attempts to read a newspaper that was left by some more fortunate beingg but he is fretful-he gazes after each passerby -perhaps hunger gnaws at his heart. The other two are too far gone. They are older and age needs reposeg so they sleep-blissfully unaware of the hubbub about them. Two boys are talking about Mr. Blank, their history prof. They imitate him, they mimick him and discuss him mercilessly. Poor man-his ears must be burning red. A uniformed nurse-maid is conversing pleasantly with the policeman. The living bundle in the handsomely arranged carriage begins to cry and the woman bids her friend adieu. Pictures-portraits, scenes, caricatures-not Dresden, Munich, or the Louvre-but Washington Square Park. Ghosfs Mad memories remain like ghostly ghouls To haunt the earthly shell that once was theirs, They lurk and hide in half-forgotten lairs And make of us sad wretches and sick fools. o Spiril' HERE is a certain Hymn that begins: Work for the night is comingg work for the day is done. Our School is slowly emerging from the darkness into the light of day. It has had many struggles, there are struggles to comeg but as it has over- come obstacles of the past, it will overcome them of the present and future. What will aid us in our battles? Money? Yes. An excellent faculty? Of course. All this and more. But most of all, that element which has created nations and then saved them all from annilihation. It was present at the beginning of civilization and will always be present in the years to come. It is heard amid the cheers of football, basketball and base- ball games. It is felt in the heart of every loyal student and lighter. Spirit -the spirit of New York University. From obscurity it has lifted us to light. The night is gone and we must work harder than ever before to keep the mists away, Thus we can show spirit-the spirit which counts in the end. We must put action into every letter of S-P-I-R-I-T. ' 150

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The Sea ahdl I have gone down To the sea, For it is there That I belong. ' With the sun, With the waves, Buffeting the fog The winds and rain. And when the winter comes And snow is everywhere, I can find A peaceful cottage By the sea! Watch the ocean Creep up closeg Watch the moon, Who pulls it backg Watch the little Fishing vessels Come and go. I will live ' And I will play On the white sands Of the beach. Where wreckage Piles up high On stormy days. And if the waves should call I would gladly go, Submerge myself, And drink The salt sea's spume. Dkmudon Dusk had descended and the impetuous wind Whipped me as I followed the path Where the underbrush cut into my tender flesh Eagerly I pushed onward 'til my veins swelled And my blood spurred like hot, bubbling lava. As I neared the rendezvous, I feigned indifference Turned laggard and made a casual approach. Urge to surprise lightened my foot steps And I entered the Garden of my Utopia Where another entwined herself about the Idol I had come to worship. A 152