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

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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

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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 In nature poems, the difference between modern and classic verse is as strong. The first four lines of James Russell Lowell's popular poem, To a Dandelion : Dear common fiower, that growest beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,- are sufficient to show the contrast in Hilda Conkling's Dandelion : O little soldier with the golden helmet, What are you guarding on my lawn? You with your green gun And your yellow beard, Why do you stand so stiff ? There is only the grass to fight! The simplicity and directness in Hilda Conkling's poem are as attrac- tive and refreshing as the dandelion itself when it first shows gold in the springtime. The contrast is equally striking in other types of poetry. Crossing the Bar has been called the most nearly perfect poem, in poetic feeling and harmony of rhythm to thought, that has ever been written in the English language. The image lives for every reader, just as Tennyson con- ceived it: the beach with the sunset streaming over it, the long wash of the waves in the sandg the far-off tolling of bells, and the clear birth of the evening star. All is pictured in the rhythm of the lines as clearly as in the words. There is no discordant note. In Sara Teasdale's last book of verse we find a few fragile lines, different in form from Tennyson's but giving in delicate imagery the same thought, the soul reunited with the Infinite. All that was mortal shall be burned away, All that was mind shall have been put to sleep, Only the spirit shall awake to say What the deep says to the deep, But for an instant, for it too is fleeting- As on a field with new snow everywhere, Footprints of birds record a brief alighting In flight begun and ended in the air. No one can define poetry, it cannot be learned or taught, only felt. Many scholars and poets have tried to express what it has meant to them: one has said that a true poem is a gallery of picturesg another, a Greek poet, tells us that it is a speaking picture and that painting is mute poetryg nearly all of them agree that poetry is the language of great emotions and that it reflects or pictures life. 12