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T H E MAROON TIGER
IV
0 Gypsy Friend, I’m trying to forget
Like you, my latest loss,—
And, oh, the open wold or the lengthening road
I seek, what e’er the cost!
—By M. M.. ’29
SWEET FOOLISHNESS
0 radiant Summer, the. laughing year!
Stay, stay with us yet a little while.
Lest gruff old Winter come, all brown and sere,
And blow away the lovely lines of thy fading smile.
O time of mellowed merriment—tender hours,
Haste not from us in this hellish sort of way!
Wait! Let this tenuous time, for love, be ours;
Winter will come, we know let us love alway
Heavens breathe on us. And God, smiling from the sky,
Bless us in such wondrous weather as this;
And yet what a cruel kindness this (/ can but sigh)
For ’hind this smiling sweetness waits winter’s froivn-
ing bitterness.
Yet, Sweet, how joyous ’tis to chase our rainbow;
To wish, to wait, to worry for what we must forego.
But love is blind, and ours very foolish, you know,
So let’s worry sick our dollish selves with dread of
Winter’s snow.
—By M. M.. ’29
MAROON AND WHITE
Arise! brave sons of Morehouse,
Sing praises to her name;
Behold her spotless banner.
A symbol of her fame.
Known beyond the restless seas;
Knoivn in every place.
The pride of the sunny South,
The pride of her race!
When life’s battles we must fight,
Wh en skies are dark above,
She’s a tender guiding light,
An emblem of her love.
Maroon and White forever!
Shall all our praises be.
Hail! Hail! dear Alma Mater!
We’ll win our victory.
—W. Raoul Montgomery
OPTIMIST
Behind the mast of sunshine
Gathers the mist of showers;
Yet, why do we seek to find
Joy where trouble flowers?
Why do we spend our precious life
Dreaming of tomorrow,
Fighting grim battles of strife,
Suffering pains and sorrow?
Somewhere, there are guiding powers
That make the world go round
But when the race is run that’s ours
The winners wear the crown.
—W. Raoul Montgomery
REVENGE
Lend me, Cupid, a fiery dart
That I may cease to pine,
And pierce with it her ruthless heart
That has for sport pierced mine.
To her I wander in a trance
Through darksome night’s cold chills
To rest my soul, deluge and dance
In love’s delusive thrills.
Though nectar oozes from her lips,
My soul knows too well
That founts from which this nectar drips
Originate in Hell.
Oh, contrite heart, that bears such love
As of wan Dido’s song.
Curse with vile tongues the Fates that drove
My heart into her fangs!
Oh rest, oblivion, sweet rest,
Deliver me from dreams,
And thoughts that linger in my breast;
My mind from lovesick themes!
Draw nearer still, alluring eyes,
Icarus to the sun;
A truer moon will light my skies
W hen your cruel day is done.
—Grady Farley, ’29
Number Of Things
“THE WORLD IS SO FULL OF A NUMBER
OF THINGS”
SENTENTIOUS SERMONS
No life can be pure in its purpose or strong in its strife
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby.
Owen Meredith
We are not poorer, but richer, because we have through
many ages rested from our labor one day in seven.
—Macaulay
The church is not a gallery for the exhibition of emi
nent Christians, but a school for the education of imper
fect ones.—Henry Ward Beecher.
The world is held back chiefly, not because of bad
men and women, but by good ones who have stopped
growing.—W. II. P. Faunce.
After all, the kind of world one carries about in one’s
self is the important thing, and the world outside takes
all its grace, color, beauty and value from that.
—James Russell Lowell.