Tates Creek High School - Compass Yearbook (Lexington, KY)

Page 211 text:

IN MEMORY OF LYNN GAIL SCHWEET f1952- 19685 The Chess Players All men are players in the celestial game. They do their part, then pass on. A child 's game is simply played, Moment by moment, piece b piece, Marking time by sunsand wing, Little fin ers move the knights and kings. Little chigdren touch the simple things in life, So bright in the dawn. Not a child and not yet a man, He moves his pieces decisively. But he's still hidin , Behind a wall of gittering laughter, Supported by the equally tinny laughter of his friends, A little lost, a little found, Secure in company, But still looking, looking For himself In the full, clear morning. Noon shies at nothing. The sword of life Has stabbed the heart, Not to kill, but to wound, To assure that the scar that is left Is strong and tight. Knilghts and kings battle, An both win, Delighting in the robust joy Of living. Now is the late aftemoon. Slow, gnarled fingers Move each piece After so much thought. Fragile memories overcome all Except the blurred and misty vision Of the ship that comes to harbor At eventide, The end of day. We are all chessmen In this game of life. We do not play to win, But to delay defeat As long as possible. Eternity is our opponent, And lest we come Too close to winning, I-le periodically Sweeps our pieces from the board, And we begin again. Moving an stopping, Running and waiting, Living and dying: We begin again. Lynn Schweet l 207

Page 210 text:

W ,M

Page 212 text:

TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG. The time you won your town the race We chaired you through the market place Man and boy stood cheering by And home we brought you shoulder-high. Today, the road all runners come, Shoulder-high we bring you home, And set you at your threshold down Townsman of a stiller town. Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay And early through the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose. Eyes the shady night has shut Cannot see the record cut, And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears: Now you will not swell the rout Of lads that wore their honors out, Runners whom renown outran And the 'name died before the man. So set, before its echoes fade The fleet foot on the sill of shade And hold to the low lentel up The still-defended challenge cup. And round that early-laureled head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, And find unwithered on its curls The garland briefer than a girl's. A. E. Housman