Park University - Narva Yearbook (Parkville, MO)

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Untitled Come to me my darkling love end the hours and days of gloom and we will chase the sorry moon and make him hide in the space between us until there is no space between. And we will ride the summer showers to the ground and be born in a flower the life of which will last a full-blown hour on the girth of time and timeless time will know us. Or I will come to you, warm, filling the quickened days with deep and deepening joys. Life! Life to spellbind us, fold us in. But come—but know my love, my love, for in the dark days now it grows more full. And in the shadow on the hill all spotted yellow I see you, know you, know you will— (your cool hand brushes back my dampened hair). L. Anderson

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summer seeing by francis m. sibley Well, actually, you may not know this, and you may not believe it or care about it when I tell you, but Fm going to say it anyway, and you are quite at liberty to take it or leave it—I don’t give a damn. But if you take it, don’t ask me why it is impor¬ tant to me; all I can say is that it somehow matters. And Don’t expect any sort of apocalyptic revelation, because all I am going to say is that there are mountains in the South. Not just hills. Real, honest-to-God majestic 4,000-foot Blue Ridge moun¬ tains, part of the Appalachians, named as they are because they look blue. The trees on them are green, but if you are far enough away to see one of the mountains as a mountain, then you are looking at the bluest blue there is. Why? Ask a scientist; use a spectroscope. Suffice it here to say that the blue is somewhere between royal and navy with a three-dimensional depth and liquidity suggestive of mystery. These mountains are not misty like the Great Smokies, and they are not jagged like the Rockies and the Sierra. They are simply breathtaking. They rise up from the foothills with proud modesty, displaying graceful lines and convolutions, the result of ex¬ posure to the elements through geological time, antedating considerably the moun¬ tains of the western United States. They receive some snow in the short winters, but they are not snow-capped. Instead, they are literally crowned with mountain laurel, as though nature has recognized their poetry and rewarded them accordingly. And I’m not talking about states which are questionably Southern, like Arkansas or Ten¬ nessee or Kentucky or Virginia or North Carolina. I have reference to the part of the southeastern United States generally referred to as the Deep South. You know: cot¬ ton, mint julep, honey chile, you all, corn whiskey, southern hospitality, southern bigotry, southern violence, grits, smoked sausage, and the long hot summer. And mountains. In the summer when I was nine years old, I didn’t pay much attention to the mountains. After all, they were there every day, and anyway I had things of more immediate concern to capture my attention. Like model airplanes and the large deli¬ cate magnolia blossoms and big little books and erector sets and Turkey Reed. Not that I was exactly tired of the mountains; I was just used to them, being able to identify the major acclivities by name. What I was tired of was my mother’s frequent histrionic declamations about how beautiful they were. This was the year of Tailspin Tommy (as my hero, that is). The year before, it had been Tom Mix, even ahead of Buck Jones, and a year later it was to be a toss-up between H. V. Kaltenborn and the girl with the deliciously sinful voice who sang “Darn That Dream” (even now my candidate for one of the best popular songs ever written: resist if you can the change in the first measure from G major to E-flat 7). Contd.