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

Page 32 text:

OAK LEAVES 1947 THEATRE They Watch the curtain rise In silence. Their eyes And ears are filled with magic things: Strange life and stranger death, the splendor kings Have sometimes lacked. No pagent this, but lives that might have been, Had fate and dreams walked hand in hand, Had what they planned Been 'what had happened. They are no longer earthbound, But, freed by phantom hopes and sounds Of far-off melodies that once they Knew by heart, they rise and mingle With eternity. There are no two who see the same In any face, or give a single meaning To a line-but each, for fleeting moments, Labels mine the scene, the act, the playg And, with a jealousy that grasps Enjoyment till it must cease to be, Cries unknowing, Delay The end. One minute more Before I must return to life. These dreams are sweet. But there is nothing more to say. In slow finality, the velvet curtain falls. There is a magic silence still: The people drain the final moment dry of makebelieve, They strain to drink their fill Of fairyland, and then the world breaks in once more, They realize where and who they are, and hide their disappointment With a roar Of earthy praise Shattering the pastel cellophane of theatre. PAULINE STRAWHECKER, '48. 30

Page 31 text:

TO A CLOCK Pendulum swinging Like the scythe of Time, A moment's silence In between the tick And the tock At the end of each swath. My essence is contained In that still crystal: The past is swung To the left, and forgotten The future is swung To the right, and beyond Reckoning. The tick and The tock speak loudly And mean nothing No NOW, that contraction Of listening, that spanned Measure of existence! - 29 i

Page 33 text:

OAK LEAVES 1947 FOR THESE One would come back To Maine for these: Frail birches among The dark pine trees. K. S LISTENING Tip toeing through the forest . . Silently, stealthily . . . Peeping into thickets, Bare feet crushing wvet grass. Eyes wonderingly searching, Ears electrically alert . . . High into the pine tree, Low over fallen leaves . . . Around . . . around . . . Whence came that magic sound? Faithfully I shall listen . . . Ever search for fear I might not find the genie Warbling the joy I hear. MICHAEL REED, '47 The tides roll in along the shore The seagulls scream and cry no more The night descends, the fog rolls on The waves repeat their somber song And one clear call above me soars And one low hum the deep sea roars They toss and re-echo each unto his own 4 My heart heeds the answer- The sea is my home. JEAN SHIRLEY Ross, '47 31