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POET’S BOOK TO A DAISY Who dares defile thy modesty With thought or word or deed. - Or think of thee as nothing more Than some trite, worthless weed? Who, with disdain, looks on the dale Where thou art prone to grow; And canst not see thy graceful form With Heaven’s goodness glow? He, in his observations poor, Must be devoid of throught; And what he cares for loveliness And beauty comes to nought. The garnished blades that appear to be dead Are only asleep in Autumm’s brown bed. We mourn for the passing of our summer days With pleasant gales, and springtime glades. But his is the time of harvest Ere Lord, to thee we give thanks. We thank thee for the snow white fleece That waves amid Apollo’s rays, The fruits of our father’s labor To make garments for every maid. They toiled amid the Summer heat How glad these days they are to meet. For thou art of the regal state, Dainty of form and too Like Ellen, reared without the courty Thou art of fairest hue- aafii Thy slender steml'ngrtih queenly grace, Has sprung from Mother Earth And stained with heavy coat of green Curtsies to jolly mirth. Thy petals too are chaste and sweet Kissed but, by Zephyr’s soul, And in the center Lo, I see A heart of radiant gold. Thy presence, an enchanting spell Upon my spirit casts. Enchanting spell?^Ah, yes! But pureT' Of friendship sweet that lasts. Oh gentlest, simplest of all flowers, Pray tell me “What is love?” The daisy only bowed its head Then pointed straight above. —0. E. Jackson, ’28. THE TIME OF HARDEST This is the time of harvest Ere Lord,: to thee we give thanks. Novembef ha'S ^onie witK 1 her wintry blast And chilly airs bite to the last, For this is the time of harvest Bre Lord, to thee we give thanks. Wfe thank thee for the fields of corn That stand stalwart and arrayed With golden tassels wavirg calm Making music in the glad. Those yellow ears will be warm And a delicious dish will be made. This is the time of harvest Ere Lord, to thee we give thanks. We thank thee for the pumpkins gold That Waits in our father’s fields To be made yellow custard pies To satisfy Thanksgiving’s desires; The turkey gobbler that struts with ease We’ll enjoy as much as we please. This is the time of harvest Ere Lord, to thee we give thanks. Our father’s who ventured this glorious task Lay asleep beneath the Autumn grass, We commemorate this day of thanks. For thy goodness in harvestual ranks. This day shall never slip over us Without our giving thee, Lord our trust. This is the time of harvest Ere Lord, to thee we give thanks. Julius C. Hill, ’28.