Villa Maria Academy - Trumpet Yearbook (Erie, PA)

Page 73 text:

My Wish I Wish I were a Poet, And could take my pen in hand, Dash off some pretty verses That would be in great demand. Ild startle all my readers, By my intelligence 5 I'd write of love and living And other subjects tense. I'd write about my mother, My father and sister too, About my aunt and uncle, And what other folks do. I'd love to write of music, Of forests and of hills, Of sunshine and of moonlight, Of heartaches and of thrills. Eut as I am no poet, I'll have to be content To hand in all these verses, At least with good consent. And if my teacher fails me, 'Twill be no fault of mine, For I have tried and tried and tried, To make these verses rhyme, M. K., '31 0i00l0 An Ode to a Freshie 030 Hail to thee, Sweet Freshie! Thou has just begun, Thou hast all before thee Our course is nearly run. Thou hast trials and worries, P'raps sorrows, and some tears, But thou hast joy for recompense, Thou hast four full years! lVe were once where thou art, But the years went all too fastg Thou art now in Eden Make it last-and last. I-Iail to thee, Sweet Freshie! I would trade with thee, I would be where thou art. lVould'st thou trade with me? E. M., '31 at 79 le

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Mother and Father Mother--to NVl10111 we flee for COIIIIOIT In all our troubles-great and sinall, She wl10 is so UHCll:Y1'SI2l11Clll1g- Is 11Ot her 1131116 sweetest of all? Father-who is friend and brother, He to XVllO1ll we give our trust, Ill inatters both of soul and body, Is he not always right and just? Oh! the care with which our parents Trained us from our childliood days, In our hearts we love then1 dearly- I.et us ever si11g their praise! V. s., '33 030030 An Attempt 020 A poem, we were told to write For Monday, and this is Sunday night I have tl1e paper, I have the pen, I have a thought 11ow and theng But when it comes to write it down My brow becomes a wrinkly frown. For I do not seeni to put the thought In rhyniing lines just as I ought. I sit and gaze froin out 111y window, And decide I'll write about the snow- So soft and sparkling, erinine white That brightens up tl1e dreary 11ight. It falls so slowly from above. How pure these little flakes of love! But aside from that I must admit My little candle won't stay litg I just can't think what else to say In the supposed-to-be poetic way. I didn't realize it was so hard Trying to imitate a. bard. So please appreciate this attempt And do not regard it with contenipt. Your thought must be--I surely li11OlV it! Sl1e'll 11ever, never be a poet. A. W., '31 ai 78 Et-

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March of the Tribe 030 She came a leader of the night SU1'1'OllllClCCl by her band. Elliflltlllllllg was this beautiful sight gk,C1'OSSlllg the desert sand. On they nnirclied o'er land and sea, Never resting for a sighg What il careless tribe so free, Chanting praises of the sky. You know them as I do know, Their twinkles Ellld their smiles- Their leader is tl1e 1110011 who shows- Her tribe the stars awhile. M. s., fai. 0i0030 Gut Mail Man 030 Gee, T like our mail man! Hels such a cheerful lad, And when I get no letter, He seems so awful sad. He searches through his letters, A frown upon his face. Then shakes his head and Whistles, Runs down the street a pace. T can scarcely wait till morning, WVhen his rounds he makes once moreg I slip on my clean apron And meet him at the door. Today he has a letter-M For me Without a doubt- He smiles, winks, then whistles And delves into his pouch. He hands ine the epistle And with a boyish laugh, T,ll het itls from your beau, Then he's down the path. But really it's not the letter, That l so wish to see, ltls just to have my mail man Wink and smile at me. M. K., far so