University of Santa Clara - Redwood Yearbook (Santa Clara, CA)

Page 23 text:

THE REDWOOD 17 ' ' For those hearts are unto that selfsame breath As reeds that cluster round The marge of some inland, idle lake Where the lone loon ' s cries resound. And the fruit of that hideous blossom Formed by my formless breath Shall be brother throttling brother And bayonets dripping death. ' ' Till nations and men and laws of men, And social illusions, too, Shall chafe at the bit of bridle chaotic And pristine folly rue. Till the wash of the years that wax and wane Shall lave the shores of time With flood of blood, proclaiming my rule Of gore and grisly grime. Till the stars, that in their lightsome course Through the blue, broad heavens wheel. Are fain from the sickening, saddening sight With aching hearts to reel. Still I ' m just above wordly measure. And my hand no race will blight Till its sins and vaunts and vanity Prove it prone to my moiling might. Till the eyes of the years were bleared with age They ' ve watched the hour-glass run In the hands of Chronos, my first-born, — Twin-born with the shivering Sun.

Page 22 text:

Nott Bm (Hmm In the wastes of infinity boundless Beyond furthest bounds of the world Dwelt Chaos, own mother of Cosmos, And to earth these words she hurled: ' ' Long have I haunted these reaches, This wild, this weary wold, Seared by the hand of oblivion Chilled by nihillic cold; ' Forgotten am I by my offspring. Cosmos and Chronos senile, Till I ' ve wearied and fretted in silence And longed for the world the while. ' ' But my advent spells tears and terror And thunder and anarchy dire, And wreck and wrack and reeking rot And flaunt of fuming fire. And the joys of men it drives afar As the wind drives thistle-down. While sorrows flock in its dismal wake Like thieves to a thriving town. And my breath like the breeze of some wierd, wan wind, That rushes hot from hell. Shall fan to fury a people ' s thoughts. And hate in their hearts shall dwell. 16

Page 24 text:

18 THE REDWOOD And no one yet by his folly Hath proffered the glad excuse For me to appear from spectral void Till thou, Earth, by abuse ' Of thy gifts and gems and glinting gold. By thy love of moneyed clay, By the damning, deadening, decadent din Of thy blatant factories bay To the gods of gold, which whines the while Like the howl of a wolf to the moon, Hast invited me to chasten thee With biting whip of ruin. She spoke, and straightway took abode On the fair, full fields of France, And blighted their grace with foul, thin hand As she played her game of chance. The game that only she can win. With men ' s blood as refreshment of wine; And stupid men in their pride of sin To blame her this waste decline. Some blame Kings and a Kaiser some — But ye who are wise well know T ' was Chaos own mother of Cosmos Who deluged our world with woe. W. KEVIN CASEY