Winter

F. EARL WARD

Oberlin College

The mad wind's raging o'er the hills to-night;
On wild, gaunt feet, naked I see him go,
Hurling with grim, blue-veinèd arms the snow,
And plucking at the trees with frenzied might.
Come, draw the shades-within's the cheery
bright

Of seasoned oak-hearts, setting cheeks aglow.
Where winds insanely rage I'll never know;
Enough to dream of faces in the light!
Lost faces! How I've chased you since you
went,

Desire like vagrant winds compelling me,

But caught you here in firelight's fleeting art. Dear faces! Was 't to teach me you were sent That Yearning howls o'er hill and grave and

tree,

But Mem'ry comes as firelight to the heart?

WILLIAM SEAGLE

Snowfall

Columbia University Law School

The clouds piled high,

A jumble of tattered pillows lie,
And down thru every opened rift
White feather-dust sifts. .

Or it may be a million, million butterflies,
Tiny, white, ephemeral,

In this strange Spring are fluttering

Within the huge net of the skies.

By noon a church nearby,

Surmounted by a wooden steeple,

Suggests a white fool's cap to passing peo

ple . . .

Within, a marriage has been celebrated;

And now, as there emerge

The two just mated,

Their happy friends about them surge,

Throwing white rice elated.

The old, old sky joins in

In no such manner petty,
For it is shaking down

Whole heaps of white confetti.

An idle fellow such as I

Sits making metaphors,

While aldermen to-night will curse The bandages upon the traffic sores.

The Wail of the North Wind

PAUL E. LANDRY

Clark University

From o'er the barren, leafless hills,
The North Wind shrieks and drones,
As if in anguish wrung, it shrills,
Then dies to sighs and moans.

A wild, weird lullaby it sings,
Lonely and bleak and drear,
To notes of pathos deep, it clings,
A murmuring song of fear.

Boreas seems to dread the past;
In dulcet tones he pleads
For victims of his uncurbed blast,
Whose souls cry out his deeds.

Frost

Wilson College

VERNA BAYLES

Her heart is bleak

As a wind-swept street in late autumn,

And as still.

Only her dust-brown thoughts

Stir drily now and then,

Like dead, brown leaves that blow

About the street,

In sudden gusts of autumn wind.

Her thoughts were bright once,

And fair as green, young leaves .

But there came one

Whose touch was as the first white frost . .

Her thoughts have withered, and fallen,

She turns dull, listless eyes

Upon the glory of a summer day.

Her heart is bleak

As a wind-swept street in late autumn,
And as still.