Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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ON A RUINED MILL They say ii used to be a mill This pile of broken rock and stone That's now so crumbling, green with liibss . . . There's a tale to spin, if it but will. Standing as it does alone. It sees once more the gain and loss In wealth — and hope. It sees a train Of wagons coming through the heat And dust to find a western home. It hears the cries and feels the pain Of battle. Blood and water meet Where men have killed; and waters foam And wash away the Indian blood And that of toiling pioneers Who suffered from the redman’s hate. And now the river is in flood, And heavy are the settlers’ fears Lest crops be swept away. But fate Becalms the swelling tide: their land Is safe and rich — and high and dry. Then one day. quite by chance, there’s found A gleaming hardness in the yellow sand; And sharply comes the frenzied cry Of “Gold! Much Gold!” — the luring sound That ruins lives. So from the din There rise some hopes reborn, some lives Remade. Great cities come — their beauty Smirched with dirt. Things new begin To crowd the old while mankind strives . . . Yet always watching, always still. There lingers there the ruined mill. James Moulton Novel “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

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WISHFUL THINKING I could be a great musician And play a clarinet. I could be a politician, Lake graft without regret. I could be the King of England. I could also be a poet. Hut if this is an example. Nobody’d ever know it! Fioren o Fertili SEVENTEEN I like to wander — silent, all alone — 'Through friendly forest, dim and filled with power. It gives me strength to fight and plan and live My life as it should be. But then I think Of joys and happiness I had in years Long past, when I was just another child Whose only care was of a broken toy. I sometimes wish that I were back again — Back to a life where work and play are one. And when the thought returns to me of hopes, Desires of which I dreamed in days gone by, I find I suffer just as much again — and will — Until the age of seventeen is passed. Annette Savard FEAR It is a living thing — Awesome and black — Consuming those who enter its grim jaws. There is no greater, No lesser degree. A child’s fear of the dark — A soldier’s fear of death — They are the same — Terrifying . . . Inescapable . . . Arlene Brackett

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Author . Datum. Dr Mairier