United States Military Academy West Point - Howitzer Yearbook (West Point, NY)

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D E D I d The Song of West Point It must have been a night of brilliant stars When Henry Hudson, sleepless, pacing slow On quiet deck, forgot a while his dreams And felt the power of this rugged land. The centuries have passed, and now the stars Show towers of rock and arches, battlements That stretch into the overlooking hills To form a chain of stone to guard the land. Stern eagles carved in stone upon the walls Stand guard o ' er walkways lined with whispering trees And silent cannon purchased far away In battle ' s test; the price was told in blood. For this has been the home of many men, Who in their time on many smoking fields Have faced the mortal shock of flying steel So that a land, their land, might live to grow. And somewhere under God these men are met, Their service over, and from there they watch This little piece of land from whence they came. And though in countenance they differ much, There is a strange resemblance each to each; For in the hearts of all of them there lives A thing that does not change from man to man, That might be likened to a kind of song. ii

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%. The HOWITZER 1954 i T i »

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, !■ r T- i l T I O N A thousand, thousand different little notes Diffused unnoticed in a melody That slowly, very slowly, came to song: The bright sunbeaten area first day. Commands that come by thousands everywhere. The new cadet confusion and the long Apprenticeship of shining hard-toed shoes. The collar hook and starch and bayonets. And B-plate nicks and twisted crossbelt maze. The pledge, the many nights with Bugle Notes, And chanting the Missouri National. The little Christmas trees in littered rooms. The first hop — evening gowns and heavy snow. The long awaited golden yearling pin. Camp Buckner, music out across the lake. The dusty kick of recoil on the ranges, And rolling seaborne tractors in assault. Red tracers in the Georgia night, and airfields. And rows of sleeping men in bucket seats. ! he Plain, where only those who march there know The dips and rolls and how precision comes From constant chatter up and down the line: Butt right, step ofj, and hold it back and cover. And dust that rises on the pivot point Among the rows of flashing bayonets, And marching to the drum and bugle sound. And thinkini? there ' $ the p-ecite%t hand there is.