St Margarets Academy - Dayseye Yearbook (Minneapolis, MN)

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Silver Trumpets Betty Girling April blew a silver trumpet at dawn. A silver mist picked up her skirts. Rustling them like waking birds. And was gone. The sun rose a trifle timidly. It hesitated on a mountain peak. Then pierced the shadows with saffron fingers Clothing the world with sparkling purity. Tiny velvet petals as soft as baby skin. Trembled on awakening with the silver-weight dew. They shook their tinted tresses and laughed. A new day to begin. The whole silver world was a frolicking fawn, Playing before a woodland pool of silver, Frisking and prancing with regal delight— When April blew a silver trumpet at dawn. Lovely Lady Mary O'Shaughnessy I wandered out into the garden With dew-dipped grass and misty air. A lovely lady was in my garden, And the amber moonbeams played in her hair She stood within an arch of roses; Her gown was decked with orchids rare. In the garden where peace reposes, I found a lovely lady there. The Lilac Line Margretta Beers By a low white gate they stand And cast their purple shade. Within their scented hearts are laid Secrets blown from every land. And lo, each night, in cool and crystal dew Against the velvet dark are hung I .ilars born anew— Etched in stars—star sung. Church Spires Florence Ruff Majestically or humbly all church spires point Heivenward, as fingers of God. They live, symbols of a living Faith. The sun. Midas-like, touches them with his first roseate flush and changes them to brilliant points of gold, glittering, blinking. As the great sun-god pursues his course, he plays his scintillating effects on many spires, great and small. Now he brightens a tiny white spire peeping through the dark tree-tops of a drowsy valley; now he warms a gray spire of the city, yearning towards the skies as if it would transcend the forest of dull steel around it, as if it would breathe, not murky smoke, but Jean, God-given air. Across continents, unconscious of strife and turmoil, the Sun rides on. over the lofty spires of St. Peter’s, Rheims, St. Mark’s, Notre Dame. Then, after the last sacred height has thrilled to the lulling peace of twilight, night comes. Stealthily, as if to take the world unawares, darkness creeps slowly over all, rugged mountains, far-flung plains, roving seas, and church spires. With the moon-glow upon them, the spires are cool, slender needles; overshadowed by portentous clouds, they are awful, silent prayers. There is an intangible charm about them, making them noiselessly alone in the babbling whirl-pool eddying about them. Ttlling of an end immortal, they sing a glorious hymn of implicit faith,—these church spires. Visitor In White Marion Martin The snow fell softly as rose petals; The flakes sparkled like crystals And kissed the once green meadows. Gav flower lets have closed tired eyes. And winter is here. My Rock Garden Mary Dousette A red stone bridge o'er trickling stream, A thatch-roofed cottage on a green, A quaint Dutch mill with fans of gold Amidst the oak trees gnarled and old; Gold hearted water lilies cool Fill with beauty the mirrored pool; Strange village folk in colors bright Watch well my garden morn and night. February Moon Elaine McIntosh Cold sparkling stars turn the snow to jewels On clean white patches of virgin snow; Sheets of shining glass mirror placid pools. Winter! It’s a lovely season to know. The dotted blue of the nocturnal sky And the yellow moon with its soft glow Make us wonder in awe at the power on high. Winter! It’s a lovely season to know. The Sisters of St. Joseph Fiorence Salzl In the peace and serenity of the convent wall Soft voices rise in prayer for all, In prayer for sinners who daily fall; God listen to their fervent call. Page Twenty-five

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My Good Shepherd Frances Heinz I mount the weep and barren mountain Mid jutting point and hollowed groove, Unprecautioned of the danger That surrounds my every move. With fervent love and constant care He leaves His safely-grazing fold. To hound my single straying step And lead me to the pasture of my soul. So Red The Rose Elaine La Palme So red the rose as it hung there, I knew that in one burst of glory I.ove had come. So red the rose as it was plucked From its thorn My heart cried out and sang Of its beauty. So red the rose as it lay in my hand. I fain would have held it for aye. Rut redder still the rose when it gleamed Like a gem in her jet black hair. Trees Honour Kappei.ler As I listened to the willows dripping moisture On the walk outside my window, I thought that they had hearts as well as we; I know that my willow tree must feel. If you have ever seen a poplar Lifting its sturdy arms in prayer, Or pines under the stars dark and heavy With their mystery of forgotten ages. You will not doubt it. Drip. Drip. Theirs is real beauty. Their delicate, silhouettes blur Against the dripping sky. I then thought of silver birches, Bending their slim litheness to cool streams: Of maples, the color of old wine, Against the autumn sunset. I saw dark, spear-pointed spruce trees Against the dark hills And a white moon caught among their boughs Drip. Drip. The steady rhythm of the rain was the only sound In the stillness of the night Like the faint beating of a tom-tom. Fire In The Sunset Marjorie Heltemes She stood among the tall birches, a lithe and beautiful figure. Her wistful eyes, soft as a fawn’s, watched the low flame that burned beneath a huge pot. Hesitatingly, she stirred the embers with a crooked branch. The darkening woods were full of subdued noises.—the soft patter of a dog's feet on the thickly strewn forest floor; a far away call of her brother; the staccato jabbering of red squirrels; the distant chatter of birds. Thin grey smoke spiraled up to red and yellow leaves. Her eyes followed its graceful line until it disappeared in the darkening blue of the evening sky. Birches shone whitei in the gloam; pines assumed an atmosphere of crouching warriors; the tamaracks stood grim. A light, westerly breeze carried to shore the tantalizing breath of fresh water. With one swing Mahica, the Indian girl, lifted a pot from its resting pole, lightly carrying it into the tent. Her bare, brown feet hardly crushed the thick moss which clung to the forest floor. Tonight there was a restlessness about her as she passed noiselessly in and out of the shadows of the forest. She added fresh cut pine to the smoldering Are; the flames flickered, glared blue, then flamed up to a vivid red. Mahica stood silently, gazing out upon the placid waters of the Indian's Mallaca , her own eyes reflecting the crimson glow of the summer sunset. Autumn Margaret Loth Splash of scarlet, a little gold. Everything touched with autumn's cold; Silently the flowers depart. Chilled by frost unto the heart. Memoir Of A Nun Bkrnaimne Lohmar A black-robed figure at prayer in the chapel dim, Has come there to rest and commune with Him; Her hands move over her long, black beads, I.ost in fond and sacred memories. Twas just a hundred years ago today They departed from France on their toilsome wav, Siz brave St. Joseph nuns inspired by God, Six angels of mercy to a land scarce trod. As the years passed on fleet wings, silently First tens, then hundreds, then thousands fearlessly. Filled with a rapturous faith and love. X Offered lives consecrated to their Creator above. Page Twenty-four n ■ -• VSVv-V fe'j Trees After The Rain Eijzabkth Noonan The trees are majestic paintings tonight. Tall and aloof they stand Glistening in the moonlight. Rustling in the shadows. And echoing through the glen. Dew clustered monuments of time, Stately and still they stand. Resolution Low Goodwin 1 11 be like the ocean. Constant and true. White caps of courage Topping off the blue.

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JuLii. The Sanctuary of Solitude Mary Zuccaro A cricket chirps; a grasshopper sings; a friendly bumble-bee drones drowsily about an uplifted buttercup. A tiny titmouse at my feet silently burrows in the dew-drenched earth. Myriads of ants run to and fro, speckling the sandy path, winding indolently before me. High above, the stalwart oaks hold friendly intercourse, with their saddening sighs and wistful words. The latticed branches droop so low as to brush gracefully the grassy tufts of ground. Down a winding slope trickles a scintillating streamlet, catching the twinkle of every dancing sunbeam that gleefully plays on the rippling surface. Black objects dart swiftly back and forth in the silver depths, faster and ever faster in a mad rush downstream. Silence all about me, and yet, it isn’t quiet. Everywhere I look, I see companionship. Nature converses, flower nods to flower, tree caresses tree, and the cricket sings to its lady-love. No human voice or form interrupts this haven of peace. It is the ideal resting-place for mortals, isolated from civilization, out in the open where the wild surge of one’s heart communes with his Creator. Indeed, the awful majesty of God is reflected in every apparently insignificant, microscopic organism as in the king of all created beings—man. The Peace of Love Phyllis Glorvick Ah, peace of love but speak to me And calm my weary, nomad heart. Enter, great Infinity, And to my soul your peace impart— The peace that rules Thy Blessed Home. The peace that fills the guileless child. My seeking heart is loathe to roam And strives to clutch peace undefiled; So while my saddened soul entreats. Breathe forth the peace which Hcav'n completes. From A Roof Garden Lorraine Mahoney Along the west the golden bars Still to a deeper glory grew; Above our heads, the faint few stars Looked out from the unfathomable blue; And the city’s clamorous jars Melted in that evening hue. To A Wild Rose Margretta Beers I found a rose In a vale where no wind blows. Chalice-like its crimsoned cup Hoarded dew for butterflies to sup. Low I knelt, with trembling torch Its fairy-fashioned life to crush. When soft across my face With gentle-glowing grace A breath of perfume blew, And then I knew It would remain there Quiet-fashioned and secure. Rain Moods JCANNE McGLYNN Slashing, drenching, stinging rain Beating relentlessly on my window pane; Tapping, pecking, rapping rain Falling sharply on my window pane; Monotonous, dripping, lazy rain Dropping slowly to my window pane; Icy, biting, cold autumn rain So proud, so haughty, so vain,— Rain resembles our every mood. Little Red Chair Irene Schultz Do you remember the little red chair That baby dragged with him everywhere? Now it stands forlorn in its lonesome place No longer brightened with baby's face. Where has he gone, this baby dear. Whose days only numbered one little year? He has wandered away, only God knows where. But he has left with us his little red chair. Pugc Twenty ux