Oak Grove Coburn High School - Oak Leaves Yearbook (Vassalboro, ME)

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OAK LEAVES l 7 n N5 A I I ' W A7 49 4 9 Nwow fu .T Osnvdl .m mwwniggm, e.g..q.tgg' .writ 5 1 XII A ,-.' 6-.A . I fix ll I-lnlfl'2f'+?eA5f:., e r .Mvflmv N- s mf.- , v 9 I H ' TO roam , ' .n :um vcnm mmm wma NNT! mmm: scan was -f rv - Uh - Q-8 Y- ka X fm! Y :rum I O I - I I 'I sr' Xl 0 I 'li Y 41-T, 4 TL i it f X TRUTH AND BEAUTY There had always been hills beyond the river, and I had known it. When people had told me what a wonderful view I had, sometimes I had remarked that on a clear day they could see the White Mountains from the highest window. Tomorrow I was going away. For the last time I turned to watch the river winding through its veil of willows. Tonight the sunset was a scarlet Hame, flaring up behind those distant hills, and their outlines were black and determined against its glow. I saw them, all the unchang- ing ruggedness of them, all the tenderness of a strength that could hold field and farmhouse nestling safely in its armsg I saw and felt them now, realizing there would be a loneliness where there were no hills. They were not food, they were not shelter, but they had become neces- sary to me as the beauty, the poetry of life. Poetry itself is neither food nor shelter to us, but it can become very necessary in bringing us the beauty in life. The discovery of a beautiful poem can bring as much pleasure as the sight of jagged mountains against a flaming sunset. Poetry has a new meaning when it finds expression for the half-formed thought that has troubled us for long! How often the failure of our ambitious plans has left us with a feeling of empty darkness, as though a beautiful piece of music were broken off before it reached its climax. We could not express that feeling, but one day we discovered Sara Teasdale's poem, The Tune. I know a certain tune that my life playsg Over and over I have heard it start With all the wavering loveliness of viols And gain in swiftness like a runner's heart. 10

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OAK LEAVES LOUIS SEIZE As a gracious tribute to the culture of the World Power which has pre- sented a Medal to Oak Grove, a period guest room is being furnished with rare pieces of Louis Seize which it has taken months to collect. One of the Hnest pieces is a mahogany desk that formerly belonged to a French Countess. All of this has been made possible through the generosity of Harry Harrison of Worcester, Massa- chusetts, a loyal member of the Board of Managers of Oak Grove. RECOGNITION IN THREE LANGUAGES When letters from distant states and even foreign countries congratu- lated us on the receipt of a medal from the Republic of France, Mrs. Owen said that although great care had been taken in developing a superior French Department, yet equal attention had been spent on the other depart- ments and they could be excellent even though there were no medals for them. Imagine our thrill when we learned in May that in an international anthology of the best poetry by children of all nations, our own Stella Carvell has actually had not one, but three poems selected as the best for the Eng- lish section. Moreover, a special compliment has come from the editor. Stella is a real Oak Grove product who entered Oak Grove in the Junior Department in 1929 when only eleven and whose mother before her was a stud-ent here. Stella had two little poems selected last year for a new an- thology of Modern American poetry. Mrs. Owen is ever ambitious for her girls and it was she who submitted these poems. Yet that is not all. She includ-ed another lovely one, Noc- turne by the brilliant Spanish student Esth-er Arango who was formerly at Oak Grove-and that has al-so been accepted with its English translation by our little Senorita. No school, however large, should expect recognition for brilliant work in more than three different languages in one year. 9

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OAK LEAVES It climbs and climbs, I watch it sway in climbing High over time, high even over doubt, It has all heaven unto itself-it pauses And, faltering blindly down the air, goes out. Or perhaps we have lost some proud title, and, like the Roman Cicero, We think this very thing most wretched, not to be when one has been. Then we have read the same poet's Mountain Water and there has been comfort. You have taken a drink from a wild fountain Early in the year, There is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain But down, my dearg And the springs that flow on the Hoor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year. During the last few years there has been a movement in poetry, an attempt to present its old emotions in a new and striking dress. The new poetry is full of surprises and unexpected phrases, with a wealth of unusual and exact description. Even the form of the new verse is differentg it is not measured by feet and by lines, but by the strophe, by cadences, and by time units. The sonnet form has been a favorite of poets since first it was used. Although it, too, has undergone changes, it is always, as Richard Watson Gilder describes the sonnet, a little picture painted well. It is interesting to contrast a sonnet of Shakespeare's, such as When in disgrace with for- tune and men's eyes, with one by the modern Writer, Edna St. Vincent Millay. Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word! Give back my book and take my kiss instead. Was it my enemy or my friend I heard, 'What a big book for such a little head !' Come, I will show you now my newest hat, And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink! Oh, I shall love you still and all of that. I never again shall tell you what I think. I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly, You will not catch me reading any more: I shall be called a wife to pattern byg And some day when you knock and push the door, Some sane day, not too bright and not too stormy, I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me. 11