Newspaper Page Text
Page 10
THE MAROON TIGER
c With the ^oets
Editor’s Note: We wish to call attention to the
following poems which are the regular contribu
tions of an anonymous writer. No one knows his
identity, not even the staff. The Maroon Tiger is
asking that the writer reveal himself in our next
issue for many are wondering to whom they are in
debted for these exceptionally beautiful poems.—
J. A. H.
Sonnets to a Frog upon musing on his untimely Fate
in a Laboratory of Scientific Pursuit.
(Most tenderly dedicated to the laboring Biology stu
dents. )
I
All. little frog that never did me wrong,
I loom above you, gleaming knife in hand,
Waiting to hear my tutor’s sure command
To hush forever your ambitious song.
I loathe this task of hacking you to pieces;
(I was not formed to grace a science hall)
Ed rather climb a windy hill and tall.
But I must labor till this hour ceases.
Merry you were among your fellow frogs,
Croaking your lullabies on rotting logs,
Splashing and diving in your sprightly play,
Having a swell time till 1 came your way.
I have not heart to put an end to thee,
But teacher warns: “Dissect—or get an E!”
II
Now you are slain by an ambitious lad
Who fain would call you little croaking friend;
Now you are met with your pathetic end.
Without an hour to muse on joys you had.
Believe that I who rends you thus and so,
Who placed you here in stark disaster’s wake,
Performed the deed for Science’s sake,
Being at heart a most reluctant foe.
So when you revel in some heavenly pool
Among your green ancestors long since dead.
Take time, I beg, to sagely scratch your head
And think upon these words breathed by a fool:
“Even in Heav’n biologists don’t sleep;
So croak your hymns, hut look before you leap.”
■—An Observer.
MATE OF MINE
Come, speak to me
I want to hear your voice
Its melody makes my heart rejoice
Do not decline, I humbly implore
Speak, Speak, Speak to me, Oh mate of mine.
Pray stare not at me
With eyes so full of love
While your sweet lips refuse the law of love
Oh, speak to me in answer to my call
I plead with thee, 0 mate of mine.
—Preston B. Shaw.
SONNETS TO LOVE
I
Vain, subtle Love that like a cobra’s tongue
Spits streams of poisons in its victim’s eyes,
Leaving him blind and racked with miseries,
Chanting a dirge when gay songs should be sung.
You are the wolf that dons the raiment of
The bleating lamb; the vulture with the coo
That issues from the sweet throat of the dove;—
The vilest of the vile, and that is you.
And now I drag your noisy, clanking chain
About this foul and frigid dungeon’s floor,
Having no key that fits this iron door,
Having no drug to counteract this pain.
But should you now proclaim: “Lad, thou art freed”
I wager you I’d die from lack of thee.
II
Strange thing that I who lived throughout many wars,
The first to enter, last to quit the fray,
Bearing upon my breast a dozen scars,
Should yield to you now, Love, this quiet way.
Wary was I and bore my stout lance well,
And every trick and turn of battle knew,
Rode steed through blood and sand and never fell;
Yet, I’m unhorsed by one faint smile from you.
And now do I who loved the smell of hlood
Sniff foolishly at some late blooming (lower;
And now do I whose voice roared like a flood
Whisper sweet nothings in a lady’s bower;
Which goes to prove what Barnum once did say:
“A dupe is horn each minute of the day.”
—An Observer.
REWARDS
March!
Restless creature—
Man.
You must on the battle-field go.
Go!
Life doesn’t play.
Fight!
You may win some victories,
Then fall—
(Tis the warrior’s lot.)
But you will have some glory,
Life’s two rewards:
The triumph of the marching;
The triumph of the fight.
—Charles Alfred Beckett, ’33.