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

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OAK LEAVES 1947 TONIGHT Tonight the air is bright with magicg The trees have lost all earthly form And nod in silver silence. The road is not the road I know- Although it bends and twists the same It seems that just beyond the turn Lie things that one might learn Except by seeing them in moonlight. The night is hushed as though It Waits for me to name the tune The winds shall play. Tonight the moon Is cream cheese more than ever, And anything Can happen, for Tonight the air is bright with magic, Some call it spring. PAULINE STRAWHECKER 48 U THF FFLLOVUSHIP AND FUN OF XVEEK-ENDS AT RUSFMIZRI 23

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TO OAK GROVE We came and found you, Some earlier than others, Some not used to life away from home, But each one feeling the same newness, The same wonder, OAK LEAVES 1947 Now it's no longer new, this life at Oak Grove. You have become an integral part of our daily lives, A part of us. We will go forth Each one bound to all, As we have been here, By your common life, experience, and heritage, As will all students who climb this hill above the Kennebec. And we are part of you, Just as we will be, always. We will send our thanks back with each thought, To you, Oak Grove, Through all our years. 22

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OAK LEAVES 1947 MASTERY Everywhere, along all The coasts of the World, The land has yielded to water. The rock cliffs fall away From the sea, the earth banks Crumble into the freshet. Again the oceans will master us. Their strength lies In their yielding persistence. Man has marked out His place on the earth, Died with a bloddy clod In his hand. But what hand Can hold water? What surveyor's Pin parcel the ocean? The seas turn before the plough And yield nothing With nothing to give They will gain what we have. Immortality is immersion. MY GRATITUDE No philosopher, no genius, no Socrates am I . . . Just a simple human who lives alone to die. No philanthropist, no contributor to immortality . . I laugh and love in our reality. The seasons, the people, the country and the cityg The dull, the queer, the brilliant and the wilttyg The little things, the large, the petty and the great The books, the music, the souls which never hate. How can we be sorrowful and relentlessly complain Of life's cruel savor of inflicting moral pain? We suffer, starve, we toil and we cry, But many are the pleasures that mortals do not buy. No philosopher, no genius, no Socrates am I . . . Just a simple human who lives alone to die. Knowing the anguish, the troubles and the sorrow, I humb-ly thank God for the joy of each tomorrow. MICHAEL REED 47 24