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HE above is quoted from the class poem of Mr. Archibald MacLeish. It is perhaps the finest of all our occasional poems, for it is the most magical. Certainly it gives final expression to the feelings which must arise in the hearts of every generation of Seniors as they sense the approaching doom of graduation. The sense of that doom weighs heavily upon the present editors of this magazine, for with the publication of this number their work is done.

During our term of office we have treated-very solemnly or very flippantly-great University problems. We have put forward the case for the literary cult, and have said the usual things in regard to the reverence due to this our ancient magazine. We have endeavored to deal completely and categorically with the theory and practice of education. We have ventured even further in a recent attempt to describe and criticize the fashion of collegiate conversation. And of course at times we have aimed a shot or two at religion and government in the wide, wide world. We admit, however, that we have not handed down a

dictum on all the problems of the modern world, and perhaps we should endeavor on this last occasion to instruct our readers on some one of the questions which has been editorially neglected. Whether it be melancholic indifference or humility that is overtaking us we cannot judge, or whether merely our mood happens to be neither controversial or philosophic. Our mood is reflective, and it responds to Mr. MacLeish's poem.

We are led, for instance, as we lay aside the last mass of manuscript amid which we have prospected for the pure gold of genius, to reflect upon the curious smile which we have noted. upon the faces of our teachers when we have told them of a new burst of poetic effort or prose voluminousness. How many generations of young singers and story-tellers have come, and stayed a bit, and vanished-whither? How many erstwhile Freshman idealists have by this time bartered their "treasuries of dreams for dreams' realities" and have perhaps found those realities like shadows on the sunny hills! And yet the professor's smile is not, on the whole, cynical. The cynic is rather of our own household. Our roommates and companions are the most violent cynicsalthough their violence oft betrays their cynicism. The college man really cannot be accused of blind sentiment or unchecked romanticism. He warns himself in Freshman year against “pulling any of this prep school stuff," and by Sophomore year he has arrived at the point where he is not "too" collegiate. By Senior year Proms mean nothing to him, he just knows women, begins to show some glimmering of interest in politics, advises men never to heel the News, thinks religion has its place-in short, is, without doubt, sophisticated.

Sophisticated the Senior does indeed appear to himself and to his fellows in contrast to what he was-say, ten years ago. Little is left of the trailing clouds of glory. But the fact of the matter is that the doors of the prison house have by no means been shut and barred. The fact is that the Senior is quite sentimental. The fact is that he has not rejected friendship—that, in fact, of all things he values it most highly. The fact is that he is very certain he can never forget the setting of his athletic field. The fact is he likes to sing-songs, for instance, about Mandalay, and about the niggah who certainly did steal, and

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about being damned from here to eternity. The fact is that he is still suffering from a wistful awe of the feminine. The fact is he has a creed-and, fortunately, a creed which is finer than what he is able to practice. Briefly, the Senior has his dream, is tinctured with aspiration, and has neither sold his soul to Mammon, nor bowed the knee to Baal.


To the professor it probably occurs that within a dozen or twenty years all this will have changed. We go the way of all flesh, and Mona Lisa shall greet us at the end. But the Senior never thinks of this-of when the arteries may harden, and the joints stiffen, and the skin wrinkle, and enthusiasm utterly fail. He does not think of middle age, when mystery becomes a trifle ridiculous, and mysticism quite unprofitable. Of course, if this is inevitable, it is not worth mentioning. Even if it is not inevitable perhaps it is the most natural course of events, and, for you and me, at least, the most desirable, for we shall still have our club and our golf. If it is neither inevitable nor desirable how shall it be escaped? Perhaps, chiefly, by the will to escape. it, for the kingdom of heaven is within us, and we have at least a share in the captaincy of our souls.

For those of us who will not surrender to decrepitude of spirit, who will not have the heart of us eaten out by the creeping tomorrows and to-morrows, the spring of Senior year is a hallowed time. For in this season we make our vows neither soon, nor ever, to forget the things of youth. We cannot give vouchers. for what we shall think or feel twenty years from now. We can, however, inscribe upon the records of the mind, things never to be forgot. We shall vow to remember our one-time faith in friendship, our uncharted desires, our sense of courage; we shall remember, too, that we have loved the beautiful.

And there shall linger other, magic things—
The fog that creeps in wanly from the sea,
The rotten harbor smell, the mystery
Of moon-lit elms, the flash of pigeon wings,
The sunny Green, the old-world peace that clings
About the college yard, where endlessly

The dead go up and down. These things shall be
Enchantment of our heart's rememberings.

And in the days to come who shall not say that these vows of spring have been to us as hosts of angels making straight the way of the soul? Henry R. Luce.


Like an orient lamp, the moon is floating
Over the face of the gleaming sea.-
Bright is the shore, where the wavelets

Are whispering constantly.

How fair are the waters shining!

How dark by the vessel's side,

Where she swings at her mooring-awaiting

A turn of the tide.

-And the crew on the beach reclining.

Men gather round the fires on the shore,
And all, in turn, vast tales are weaving-
High dreams of love and voyaging and war.
But they will love and fight no more,
That sail a ship the rats are leaving.

'Twas I alone that saw them go.
They scampered, scurried, from below,
With furtive movements, curving low,
And liquid shadows. (Ah! They know!)
'Twas I alone that saw them leaving.
No eye but mine beheld them go.

Lyres; and a young voice singing:
"With the dawn we shall go, my friends,
Through the open sea in our galley,
To a place where the ocean ends.

"Here, in these enchanted islands,
We shall find what we've dreamed, and know
Things long unknown; we shall sing new songs
And each shall have what his heart most longs.
At dawn we shall go.

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