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Page TWO THURSDAY, APRIL 14, 1960 ILOT Southern Pines North Carolina “In taking over The Pilot no changes are contemplated. We will try to keep this a good paper. We will try to make a little money for all concerned. Wherever there seems to be an occasion to use our influence for the public good we will try to do it. And we will treat everybody alike.”—James Boyd, May 23, 1941. Poems for Spring FAIR EASTER Thou hallowed chosen mom of praise. That best and greatest shinest: Fair Easter, queen of all the days, Of seasons best, divinest! Christ rose from death and we adore For ever and for evermore. Comcy let us taste tl/ie vine’s new fruit, For heavenly joy preparing; , Today the branches with the root In resurrection sharing: Whom as true God our hymns adore For ever and for evermore. —ST. JOHN OF DAMASCUS (Eighth Century) . IN MY OWN SHIRE In my own shire, if I was sad. Homely comforters I had: The earth, because my heart was sore. Sorrowed for the son she bore; And standing hills, long to remain. Shared their comrade’s short-lived pain. i And, bound for the same bourne as I, On every road I wandeyred by. Trod beside me, close and dear, The beautiful and death-struck year. —A. E. HOUSMAN NO MORE A-ROVING So we’ll, go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving. And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath. And the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon. Yet we’ll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon. —BYRON ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA You meaner beauties of the night. That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your numbers than your light, You common people of the skies, « Where are you when the moon shall rise? You curious chanters of the wood That warble forth Dame Nature’s lays. Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents, what’s your praise When Philomel her voice shall, raise? You violets that first appear By your pure purple mantles known, T .ike the proud virgins of the year. As if the spring 'were all your own. Where are you when the rose is blown? So, when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind. By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not designed Th’ eclipse and glory of her Wind. —SIR HENRY WOOTEN TRAVELER'S REPORT There was a country of straight sun. And no shadow . . . The men there Had clear eyes and a hard wit. And what the men did there was done With such an unambiguous air There could be no two ways of it. Came there a traveler with a word Like “sorrow” or “color,” a new souhd, A gracious sound upon the breath: The children were the first that heard, But soon the tale got well around; “The stranger saith, the stranger saith . . .” The traveler was put to death. I wakened to the slanting sun And shadow on my colored land. And sorrow near, the constant one, Her hand familiar in n^y hand . . . 1 have no further journeys planned. —DAVID MORTON NEVER AT ALL Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin Vonly looked at me And never kissed at all. Strephon’s kiss was lost in jest, Robin’s lost in play, But the kiss in Colin’s eyes Haunts like night and day. —SARA TEASDALE BEYOND this MEASURE Bear with me: I say that love Must live beyond this measure of The light we call Today, and be A force within eternity. And it would seem, those stars in space Are also worlds that each must face Not only till this night is gone, But from now on. That any truth the heart would know. Beyond this measured time of snow. Is really tangible as touch. And means as much. —MARIO SPERACIO THE CHERRY Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough. And stands above the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten. Twenty will not come again. And take from seventy springs a score. It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom j Fifty springs are little room. About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow. / I —A. E. HOUSMAN I THINK CONTINUALLY I think continually of those who were truly great. Who, from the womb, remembered the soul’s history Through corridors of light where the hours are suns. Endless and singing. Whose loVely ambition Was that their lips still touched with fire. Should tell of the Spirit, clothed from head to foot in song. And who hoarded from the spring branches The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms. What is precious, is never to forget The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs. Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth. Never to deny its pleasure in the morning simple light. Nor its grave evening demand for love. Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother With noise and fog, the flowering of the spirit. Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields. See how these names are feted by the waving grass And by the streamers of white cloud And whispers of wind in the listening sky. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, / Who wore at their hearts the fire’s center. Born of the sun, they travelled a short while toward the sun And left the vivid tdr signed with their honor. —STEPHEN SPENDER Welcome^ Happy Morning! “Welcome, happy morning!” age to age shall say: Hell today is vanquished, heaven is won today! Lo! the dead is living, God for evermore! Him, their true creator, all his works adore! Earth her joy confesses, clothing her for spring. All fresh gifts returned with her returning King; Bloom in every meadow, leaves on every bough. Speak his sorrow ended, hail his triumph now. Months in due succession, days of lengthening light, Hours and passing moments praise thee in their flight. Brightness of the morning, sky and fields and sea. Vanquisher of darkness, bring their praise to thee. “Welcome, happy morning!” age to age shall say. —Sixth Century Hymn ‘Like A Friend...^ There is a stanza in Robert Frost’s poem “Two Tramps in Mud Time” that describes an April moment when air and sky have a ver nal feeling, but suddenly a cloud crosses the path of the sun and a bitter little wind finds you out and you are back in the middle of March. Everyone who has lived in the countty knows that sort of moment—the promise of warmth, the raised hope, the ruthless rebuff. There is another sort of day which needs celebrating in song—the day of days when spring at last holds up her face to be kissed, de liberate and unabashed. On that day no wind blows either in the hills or in the mind; no chill finds the bone. We’ve just been through this magical moment—which was more than a moment and was a whole morning—and it lodges in the mem ory like some old romance, with the same subtlety of tone, the same enrichment of blood, and the enchantment and the might and the in describable warmth. Even before breakfast I felt that the moment was at hand, for when I went out to the barn to investigate twins, I let the kitchen door stay open, lazily, instead of closing it behind me. This i was a sign. The lambs had nursed and the ewe was lying quiet. One lamb had settled itself on the mother’s back and was a perfect miniature of the old one—they reminded me of a teapot we have, whose knob is a re plica of the pot itself. The barn seemed warmer and sweeter than us ual, but it was early in the day, and the hint of spriipg-burst was still only a hint, a suggestion, a nudge. The full impact wasn’t felt until the sun had climbed higher. Then came, in a rush, the many small caresses which added up to the lull embrace of warmth and life—a laziness and contentment in the behaviour of animals and people, a tendency of man and dog to sit down somewhere in the sun. In the driveway, a deep rut which for the past week had held three or four inches of water, and which had alternately frozen and thawed, showed clear indications of drying up. On the window ledge in the dining-room the bare brown forsythia cuttings suddenly discovered the secret of yellow. The goose instead of coming off her nest and joining her loud companions, settled down on her eleven eggs, pulled some feathers from her breast, and resign ed herself to the twenty-eight day grind. When I went back through the kitchen I noticed that the air that had come in was not like an invader but like a friend who had stopped by for visit. —E. B. WHITE BEAUTY. HAVE PITY Beauty, have pity, for the strong have power. The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace. Summer of man its sunlight and its flower, i Springtime of man all April in a face. Only, as in the jostling on the Strand, Where the mob thrusts or loiters or is loud, ' The beggar with the saucer in his hand Asks only a penny from the passing crowd— So from this glittering world with all its fashion. Its fire and play of men, its stir,' its march. Let rrie have wisdom. Beauty—wisdom and passion. Bread to the soul, rain where the summers parch. Give me but these and though the darkness close. Even the night will blossom as the rose. —JOHN MASEFIELD PUTTING IN THE SEED You come to fetch me from my work tonight When supper’s on' the table, and we’ll see If I can leave off burying the yhite Soft petals fallen from the apple tree (Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite. Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea) And go along with you ere you lose sight Of what‘you came for and become like me, Slave to a springtime passion for the earth. How love burns through the Putting in the Seed On through the watching for that early birth When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed. The sturdy seedling with arched body comes Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs. —ROBERT FROST IN TIME OF DAFFODILS In time of daffodils (who know the goal of living is to grow) forgetting why, remember how in time of lilacs who proclaim the aim of waking is to dream, remember so (forgetting seem) , in time of roses (who amaze our now and here with paradise) forgetting if, remember yes in time of all sweet things beyond whatever mind may comprehend, remember seek (forgetting find) and in a mystery to be (when time from time shall set us free) forgetting me, remember me —E. E. CUMMINGS OUT OF THE LIE OF NO Out of the lie of no rises a truth of yes (only herself and who inimitably is) making fools understand (like wintry me) that not all matterings of mind equal one violet —E. E. CUMMINGS The Public Speaking 'Spanish Swindle' Method Described in Keyes Book To the Editor: Last week, while browsing in the Library, I came across “Sta tion Wagon in Spain,” by Frances Parkinson Keyes. Thinking it was a travel book which would bring back some of my own delightful 'texperiences while motoring in that country, I took it home. ■ I found that it is an intriguing mystery story describing the ad ventures of a young college pro fessor who had received a “Span ish prisoner” letter. Having re cently inherited a large estate and with a sabbatical year in prospect, he decides to go to Spain and spend both time and money find ing the sender of the letter which he realizes is a fake. Imagine my surprise when I read in last week’s Pilot the. ar- tice telling of the “Spanish pris oner” letters received from Mexi co by Dr. Warlick of this town! They are almost identical with that in Mrs. Keyes’s book, except for the amount of money involv ed and the country of origin. In her foreword to “Station Wagon in Spain,” Mrs. Keyes says that she first heard of the letters through a friend who worked in the censorship bureau in New York during World War I. They were received then by the thous ands. Most of them were not mailed to the addressees and were stockpiled and labeled, “Thought to Be Fraudulent.” Mrs. Keyes did extensive re search and contacted many au thoritative sources, among them the Spanish minister of justice and similar officials in France. She found that the first “Spanish prisoner” letters were recorded in the courts of Seville in 1542 and that several articles have been written about them in recent years. I am sending a clipping of your article to Mrs. Keyes, as I am sure she would like to include, it in her files on the subect. She is almost a neighbor of mine in the sum mer when she is in her ancestral home in Newbury, 'Vt., a few miles across the Connecticut Riv er from my home in Haverhill, N. H. CAROL DAY Southern Pines Grains of Sand Watch Your Step! Sam Ragan, who gets out the Sunday column “Southern Ac cent” and performs a few odd ^ jobs on the side, for the Raleigh ‘ News and Observer, (Oh, all right, he IS the managing editor, then) dangerously fans the flames of an ancient and honor able rivalry when, in this Sun day’s column, he lists the home address of Glen Rounds as “Pine- hurst.” I The shudder that shook this community must have registered on seismographs all over this country. Not to mention behind the Iron Curtain. To lose a cel ebrity is bad enough, but for Southern Pines to lose him to Pinehurst is beyond description horrible. Though there will always be a few here or over there, who, having seen the celebrity in ques tion strolling down Broad Street, twirling his long red handlebars and tossing insults to all and sun dry—regardless if it’s the mayor, Roy Cameron, Adlai Stevenson, one of the Allen sisters from Bis- coe or the head of a possible new industry, for heaven’s sake, cas ing the town—there will always be a few citizens to shout Pine- hurst-ward: “Brother, you can have him!” And likely a few more over there—golfers. Repub licans, trotting-horse devotees, hridge fans—to shout back: “Thanks, pal: you can keep him!” Dooming said Rounds to weary Flying Dutchman rounds of the new traffic circle for the next 500 years. -Can’t let that happen. . . Please, Sam: Glen Rounds, whose good book, “Blind Colt,” newly re printed, you justly gave space to, is SOUTHERN PINES. And don’t you forget it. Playing It Safe? The ladies of the White Hill Presbyterian Church are to \be congratulated on their choice of one of their number to be award ed a Life Membership in their Women of the Church group." After all, this is an important step, not to be taken lightly, and the White Hill women showed their good conservative judgment when they chose Mrs. Lillie Law- hon Harrington for this honor. Mrs. Harrington, who has been a member of the church group since 1890, is 93 years old. Sort of a Pogrom!? Recollections of old times were rife in the visiting that went on UD at the Alston House on Satur day. Here were gathered old- timers and new-timers and the stories stretched back into the misty distance. Ralph Page, best all-round story teller that ever was, con tributed a few. It seems that, some time ago, one ex-politico, present Saturday, had pulled a goof when he was up at Raleigh that had gained delighted statewide acclaim. Coming from the supposedly af fluent Sandhills area, it was thought quite appropriate when he introduced a bill at the Gen eral Assembly proposing as the clerk read it, “an open season on peasants.” He didn’t notice in time that his secretary had left out the H in “pheasants.” "Just Sign Here . . And there was that time when a distinguished member of the Moore County Bar Association drew up a deed to some land the Boyd brothers were buying and left out all the “nets.” So that instead of agreeing not tb: build pigpens, dump garbage, set fires, break sanitary rulings, and so on, they were pledging themselves irrevocably to a whole slew of nefarious and loathsome acts. And, hoping none of you get into such a fix, here’s wishing you: A HAPPY EASTER The PILOT Published Every Thursday by ^ 'THE PILOT, Incorporated ^ Southern Pines, No:rth Carolina 194I_JAMES BOYB—1944 Katharine Boyd Editor C. Benedict Associate Editor Pan S. Ray Gen. Mgr. C. G. Council Advertising Mary Scott Newton Business Bessie Cameron Smith Society Composing Room Dixie B. Ray, Michael Valen, Jas per Swearingen, Thomas Mattocks and James C. Morris. Subscription Rates: One Year $4. 6 mos. $2. 3 mos. $1 Entered at the Postoffice at South ern Pines, N. C., as second class I mail matter. Member National Editorial Assn, and N. C. Press Assn.
The Pilot (Southern Pines, N.C.)
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April 14, 1960, edition 1
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