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

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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

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OAK LEAVES 1947 TO A CAGED WILDBIRD Oh foolish, futile bird, Oh valient, broken heart! Forgotten was the pain And bruised the restraining bars, When some of thy dauntless pinions Broke, and fioated to the stars! K. S. WALKING IN FOG There is an attitude that goes with walking in fog which is as vague and intangible, and yet actual and perceptible as the fog which creates it. Both erase the harsh outlines of reality, and blend near and present objects with those farther on. Fog envelopes the body and lifts it from the visible world, 'wraps the soul in mist and carries it beyond the conscious. They blend reality with fantasy, and seen through them, it is not strange that voices are without source and hopes without basis. Both give a chance to dream without sleeping. Perhaps their only common denominator is God. Fog is a mood. Not a disturbed, wavering condition, but one that lets a person examine his own soul and feel it with his hands, with no one around to criticize irregularities or condemn individuality. Life is better for a few hours of fog when one can hear a bird and not see its cage. Fog lends its mystery to the soul and lets it peer unobserved into unex- plored corners made wonderfully light by the darkness of the fog. And yet fog is not comprised of darkness. It is the very presence of so much light that nearly blinds one-in such a state the soul is free, the body gropes in its accustomed manner. It is a relief to walk in fog where the soul reaches new paths and meanwhile finds the tangled forest lovely, covered by the mist. PAULINE STRAWHECKER, '48. THE CHILD The forest was very cold, still and gloomy on that late December evening. Icy fingers of cold seemed to creep ,through the trees, to crawl in under the fur coats of the animals and into the feather-downed birds. Nowhere could any warmth be found. The deer lay quivering in their little shelters while the partridges shivered in their leafy beds. The lwise old owl hugged his wings closer. When the night was so calm and peaceful, who would have 26