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"POET’S CORNER
THE MYSTERY OF THE MIND
The mind of man is a mystery to me;
I dare not fathom its complexity;
For deep in the brain there is often found
A twisted tangle of things unsound.
He that delves in the forbidden recesses
Finds that which distresses, tangles, possesses.
He that treads these treacherous trails
Attempts understanding—to no avail.
Yet do not despair without further perception ;
Somewhere are imbedded the gems of exception;
Search if you dare—perhaps you may find
One shining soul steeped in peace of mind.
If you succeed where I may fail, Condemn me not, mark well the trail;
For bitterly I find in man of late Not the temple of love,—but the storehouse of hate!
Shir-Lee Crosby ’53"
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"“They will hug you and kiss you
And tell you more lies
Than the spikes in the railroad
Or the stars in the skies.”
—Old Smoky"
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“The last time I saw darlin’ Cory She was sittin’ on the bank of the sea, With a jug of liquor in her arm And a .45 across her knee.”
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"“The moon's a devil jester
Who makes himself too free.
The rascal is not always Where he appears to be!” The Traveler by Vachel Lindsay"
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"Secret Unspoken and Unseen
Outside this house upon this city hill
The coldest wind of winter pries at window, Fans out the snow from lawn and empty lot The way a mower fans out August hay.
Here from this window where I stand and watch And feel the slanted sun across my face, Is conjured up another, further scene Where winter dominates an island coast And locks it fast within a crusted bay.
Now does the cautious traveler on its shore Remember rocks the snow has camouflaged; Observe the nearer water: thickened; still; Froze hard to zig-zagged boulders, crystal spray. Now does he blink at dazzle just beyond Where ice smooths out to whiteness; thins to blue;
Becomes a moving sea, pierced by the sun.
Outside this house upon this city hill A snowplow vibrates slowly into view. And wind and man-made plow battle the snow Until it lies quite level, flat, and hard.
And high, neat mounds are margin to all walks. The wind that wrestled with the plow retreats. But not for long. With January whim It soon returns, and spins the new-piled snow Back to the street. And man’s conceit in taming Natural law dissolves again. The sun Shines down upon a brilliant world, Its secret still its own, and God’s.
—Bertha Carter Ruark ’37.
Courtesy of Deer Isle Messenger."
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"“Darling, what is that?
That, angel, is a hat.
Are you positive? Are you certain?
Are you sure it’s not a curtain?
Shall you really place your head in it? How’s for keeping cake or bread in it? ... . . . What was the matter
With the hatter?
Was he troubled? Was he ill?
Was he laughing fit to kill?
Oh, what was on his mind
As he designed?
Had he gone without his supper?
Was he dressing in an upper? . . .
Oh, may the Furies batter
That eleven-fingered hatter!
May doom and gloom enswaddle
The creator of this model 1
I hope he made a lot of them, That dozens he has got of them, I hope he has a harem, And all his spouses wear ’em."
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"Oh lead us ever on to Thee, Our God whose way is love;
Help us to teach as Thou hast taught, And strive toward Thee above.
May we in truth and wisdom And in kindness ever grow, And teaching well Thy children Thus serve Thee here below."
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"Soliloquy-Saturday Night
Here we are; the evening drags past.
How much longer must this ennui last!
I don’t like you at all.
You tend to be short; I like my men tall.
Your eyes are brown; I much prefer blue;
And my dream man has hair of much darker hue. Dick is much smoother; Jack’s more my type, Or that ex of Sis’—the one with the pipe!
You’re really impossible; your humor is vile;
But I sit here and say, “Darling, how droll you are!”—and smile.
You can’t see Symphony, Saroyan, or Stein— Your ideas never coincide with mine.
You glower at me when I tune in a crooner— If I ever see you again, it’ll be later, not sooner! How can you be so terrifically boring?
Your repartee’ll soon have me snoring.
Woman, scuttle those thoughts ! Come out 'of that trance.
He’s the only man left you can drag to the danqe!
Evelyn Kirkpatrick, ’45."
