Seton Hall University - Galleon Yearbook (South Orange, NJ)

Page 11 text:

DICATION In the laboratory, a single light is burning. It reflects from the puddles of water he steps aside to avoid. There is no one near him, or one with whom to share the rain. Perhaps a student is working late near the light, perhaps a teacher. In another building, the priests may be talking, laughing, finishing their supper. The watchman may be plodding through some empty hall. But these things are foreign to him, for he hears no sound but the sound of the rain, and if others laugh and work in the warmness of their shelters, he cannot see them. He feels very much alone. He walks on through the rain, his footsteps clicking out monotonous moments, his mind trad- ing these moments for moments past, moments once casually neglected, now so very rich. He sees old faces, hears voices long forgotten, re- calls exquisite memories that had been lost . . . how long? A girl in a blue evening gown. A sleepy lecture on an April day. A guy with a run-down jaloppy. At home; at night; a line in a book. How long ago, how long? Was it yesterday? No not yesterday. And then he is not alone. From the rain comes another man, hurrying, bent into the storm, his coat collar huddles tight and high about his neck. The man hesitates. As he lifts his head, the water flows from his hat brim in dribbling little streams. The hat he wears is black. Why hello, Bill. Hello, Father. What are you doing here? Just stopped around. I ' m shipping out again soon. Where to? I don ' t know. The man in the black hat turns his head away. I wish we could talk, but . . . It ' s okay, Father. I know you ' re pretty busy. You ' ll write to me? Sure. There is an awkward pause. The older man breathes heavily, his eyes abstract in thought; then he extend his hand. He speaks slowly. Good luck, Bill. Thanks, Father. They part mysteriously, as they had come to- gether. And he is alone in the rain once again, in the soft caressing rain. But he is not quite alone as before. Something of his memories seem real. He walks on, the moments of the present clicking by more easily to the tempo of his steps, the dimness of the laboratory light touching his coat of olive drab. And all about him is the rain, gently falling through the night. TO THE MEN IN THE RAIN, AROUND THE WORLD, WHO ONCE WALKED IN SETONIA ' S LIGHT, THIS BOOK IS HUMBLY DEDICATED. J.G.D. Page 7

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(Even the darkness is not too dark for thee. But the night shines as the day — Darkness is as the light. DE lliiiil M l ■- iff m s % : RAIN . ; . gently falling through the night, bending down the sharp grass blades, tumbling droplets on cool earth. Softly fall the rain . . . on the roofs of shadow buildings, gargling fn the gutter pipes. Tenderly it pats the pavements shimmers bright the restless trees. Softly falls the rain . . . t

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