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THE MAROON TIGER
c With the ^Poets
TO DEATH
You are the foe—or shall I say the friend?—
Of queen and strumpet, prince and clown and king;
Your frigid finger is a dreaded thing;
And at your feet both peer and pauper bend.
You are the warrior who is yet unhorsed;
Your sabre rends, your lance goes ne’er amiss;
Yours are the lips that taste the final kiss
Of lovely ladies. It was you who forced
Bold Hector from the lists, and to your grot.
And fierce Achilles to forsake the shield.
Fair Juliet to your roguish glance did yield.
And Guinevere for you spurned Lancelot.
And while man struts and shakes his puny sword.
You sit in silence like a waiting lord.
TO LIFE
And who are you within that misty veil
That beckons with a cup of scarlet wine?
Men pure, and (hose who lay abroad like swine,
Have sought you like stout Galahad, the Grail.
They revel with you in your brilliancy
And sing with lusty throats your gay refrain;
Some writhe in agony beneath your pain,
Crying that you are bitter as the sea.
Some say that you’re a dancer, buoyant, gay,
Whirling in mad, delicious ectasy;
Some call you bondsman with a cruel way
Of lashing cringing fools that dare to flee.
We grope and grasp like seven blind men of old,
And name you by the meagre part we hold.
—An Observer.
DON'T QUIT
When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you are trudging seems all up bill,
When the funds are low and debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh.
Rest, if you must—but do not quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learn,
And many a “failure” turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up though the pace seem slow,
You may succeed with another blow.
Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victory cup,
And he learned too late when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.
Success is failure turned inside out—
The silver tint of the cloud of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are
It may be near when it seems afar,
So stick to the fight when you are the hardest hit,
It’s when things seem worse that you mustn’t quit.
—John Benjamin Clemmons, ’35.
TO ISMARELLE
Now that we’re through, and at each other’s sight
Our eyes wax wary, fierce, and out of mood,
Think not that I shall pace my floor at night
Or find some corner wherein I shall brood.
Nor shall I cry love has a bitter cost,
And only fools pay for the bitter drink;
I shall not say that everything is lost
When love drains out like water from a sink.
I’ll cock my hat as gayly as a rake,
And spill upon the air a merry tune;
I’ll revel with the revellers and make
Love songs for Judith, Jane, and Joan, and June.
And I shall move where life and laughter tread;
Then foe and friend shall never know I’m dead.
-An Observer.
THE WEAKLING
I b’long to the gang of weaklings,
Not strong enough for men.
We fill as much of space, perhaps,
But, then, our blood is thin.
We dare not face life’s hardships.
We are not made that way.
Just give us our gang and gossip
And somewhere to spend the day.
A worthless song, wild music and wine,
Some one to pity and pet us.
We are happy then—in paradise—
For none of life’s cares then beset us.
Why must we toil and sweat and pray,
Because folk say we should?
No, give us a crust, a bed, and a drink.
To the he men render the good.
J. H. Franklin, ’36.
MY PLEA
Dam not my youthful spirits
With the ancient walls of inhibitions,
Curb not my youthful energies,
Which seek to subdue the bleak
Confines of thy “shall nots”!
Lest they in swelling with resentment
Shall swell, and swell,
And burst from their imprisonment,
Carrying in one unreasoning sweep—
Destruction!
Shall we live the lives of fantastic
Dreamers,
Dreaming of the beauties and pleasures
Of life?
Or shall we face life’s grim realities,
And suffer their many pains and
Horrors?
—Lester A. McFall, ’36.