Shimer College - Acropolis Yearbook (Mount Carroll, IL)

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THE RECORD RECESS The night is over. and I not ready for the day Stand here watching the eastern sky flood gray gold tinged. Spreading flames. the clouds, rush and cover all the morning light. Day comes bringing a rush of thoughts Seering the inflames mind. Dawn is all too brief a thing to compensate for day. Loruu Dmrsmoms DENOUEMENT I dreamed that you returned last night to me, And whispered. Dear, our lovely yesterdays Remain a haunting joyous memory . . , As hand in hand we ran and laughed at rain, Or dug our toes in hot dry sand. or cried To see the vast night stagger back at dawn, Or lingered musing ox er pages dried And worn by time. Then suddenly I felt Your tears fall on my face. When I awoke I touched my lips. Your tears had turned to ice. Pnrucs CLOUGH IEAPESTRY OF MEMORIES Time moves gently, Like a tired old man. Careful not to break the precious thread of the past. Slowly it weaves our yesterdays Into a somber tapestry Oi the tears and hopes That are gone. Tenderly time dims its work lvitli a purple mist, Slowly pushing hack the past. A tapestry of memories to keep out The cold of long tomorrows. PATRICE CLOUGH WHEN DUSK COMES There is a longing, longing in my heart, Yearning too deep for idle. falling tears. Loneliness comes as dusk's soft counterpart. Sadly I seek. yet know not what I seek. Beauty, elusive, urgent pulls at me. Gently warm winds and shadows touch my cheek. lVhat clo I seek as evening's black robes sweep Silently brushing back the lust of day? Blindly I search and finding not. I weep. PATRICE CLOUGH

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THE RECORD 23. Margaret Plummer . . . Peg . . . And one was a saucy little red-head. 24. Virginia Rison . . . 'fFlash . . . All great women are dying . . . I don't feel so well myself. 25. Grace Rogers . . . Gracie . . . Brains, boats, and bottom fioor Hathaway. 26. Rita. Trace . , . Ritz . . . Diet table and nocturnal habits. 27. Ellen Waller . . . f'Ellie , . . Snoozie, whatsis you mean, zowiel 28. Silvia Wassermzin . . . Siphie . . . the current Baby Snooks. 30. Mary Woolsey . . . Woolie . . . greeting the world with a smile. 31. .lean Youkey . . . Youkey . . . Sometimes I sit and think and sometimes I just sit. PASTORAL The clouds ham: blue on the hill-tops Where clover piled pink swells to sky The fields and the beeches are swaying. The wind blows the cloverin the files. And look! The calves are playful. Their hides are rich in the sun. And I would leap like the foolish calves, Sway as the beech by the stile. Swellas the full-ripe clover. And drink 'till I'm drunk of the day. Lomm Dsnsmorm DEATH Death is a garden blooming with moonflowers. After mad. hot colors of day, The dark comes, And then Slowly the fragile, white. winglike petals open, Perfect, complete With the beauty that blooms Breathing serenity In the cool of the garden of death. Lorum Dm-zsmons HEPATICAS I saw their light blue chalices Thrust carelessly into n howl. I'd come to rind a book or two And chanced on things to stir my soul. I thought, 'Why yes, it's Spring once more.' I had forgot the echoes of another duy Through open windows vagrant dreams Drifted in on the breath of May. A kinglet on a swaying reed. Willows bending in the rain. The marsh frog's throbbing minor chunk . My childhood flooded back again. I saw the mossy streams and lanes Of youth's first soaring careless hours. And lost in dreams, I thought perhaps I'd pick again those tiny flowers. ADELAIDE SHRADER AND SO THEY GO Men break quickly. After long years of toil They suddenly crack- Surface erosion. NVomen break slowly- From the inside. They crumble quietly Until there is nothing left. Prrizrcs Cnouen

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THE RECORD REVOLT I want to live 5 and I donyt mean existing in a pretty little world. I don't 4-are particu- larly whether I'm happy or sad, I just want to live. Maybe if I say that over enough times, maybe if I wish hard enough, it will come true. But there's a lot of opposition. Why is everyone so bent on building narrow, sheltering walls around me? I go to church and the minister sends me away with the message, Kept by the power of God . Well now that's very nice, I believe in having a faith. But I don't want to be Kept by it! It's all right to have it deep underneath to stabilize and strengthen one but-I don't want to be buried by it. Can't I do anything with the exhilaration of not knowing whether I'll come out on the top or the bottom, whether it will make me or break me? Must I always think, Whatever happens, I'm protected, I'm sheltered by God? And my parents . . . they mean well. I suppose it's because they love me. But they buy me the right clothes, they teach me the right manners, they send me to the right schools so I'll get to know the right people. Maybe I don't want to know the right people. Maybe I'd like to know a woman who isn't just nice, a man who gambles or drinks, someone who isn't just nice, a man who gambles or drinks, someone who isn't educated! They spend a lot of money on my entertainment. They send me to good camps and on ehaperoned tours. But perhaps I'd like to hitch-hike some place, land in a strange town with no money and only myself to depend on. My teachers set for themselves the noble goal of educating me and giving me culture so that I'll never know poverty and will get a good job. Well personally I'm sick of good jobs, they sound so dull. I'd like to work in an all-night restaurant, or be a maid on a boat, or own a huckster's wagon. The law does its share too. I ean't run away, our very competent police would soon find me and send me home. I can't hitch-hike or wander from place to place, they put girls like that in the proper institutions. But now that I've got my revolt down on paper, I can see who's really to blame. It's myself. The preacher, my parents, the law, my teachers have won. I'm so steeped in their theories and ideals that I haven't enough spirit or daring to do any more than just talk. I'll go right on living my calm proper life. MARJOHIE DUNKEL A PEDESTRIAN The late November winds were just beginning to sting and bite their victims, forcing them to seek protection in some warm shelter, when up the lane trudged an old man, un- mistakably a forlorn predstrian. The pitiable tramp plodded slowly toward the barn, his rags waving wildly about him. A cap nearly three sizes too large for his head was pulled down over his ears, and his tattered outside jacket was pinned together in the front in a futile attemt to keep out the cold, damp air. Worn trousers, heavy from the black muck, were about to drop. Bare threads of cloth tied loosely about cold, numb ankles served as stockings. A pair of filthy feet sought protection in nearly soleless shoes of light canvas. His withered blue claws firmly grasped a small dilapidated box which was f1'equently opened, but in such a fashion that the contents were visible to no one save the owner. FRANCES BONE TEN SPOT With a. deliberate, rhythmic chug the train pulled out of the small station. Faster and faster the wheels turned until finally the girl in the station could no longer count the rhythm with her fingers. She was sitting on a stool at the counter. With a final wail the train rounded the bend, and nothing but a fiat buzz could be heard. The girl sighed. She opened her purse and took out the ten dollar bill. Ten, dollars, and what to do with it. The last money she had in the world. Ten dollars and a ticket to the city. The man behind the counter, wearing a tall white hat and a dirty apron that looked like a butcher's, eyed the bill apprehensively. There was no-one else in the station, and it was nearly midnight. The next train wasn't due for two hours. Nice night, he said engagingly. Yeah, she replied without looking at him. Good night for a murder, he said jokingly. She looked up quickly, but didn't answer. Five minutes passed.