REPRINTS OF '43 CLASS DAY ANNUAL FEATURES

Since Shelley's coin were gold in Glory's bank

If Shelley were a brand of heavy tank,

And since thought's very ground and art's demesne

Are shuddered by the throb of one machine,

We should observe the true text of the age

When other hail the footnote as the page

This smacks perhaps of ogre-fancying

But one dead frog can taint the purest springs,

And men, through habit, may forget to think

To scrutinize the wells whereat they drink.

A desk-docked general of ours, unnamed

For sweet discretion's sake, last month proclaimed

A creed for those who must depopulate

The foe; and every even word was hate,

And every odd was Kill-strange sacrament.

To minister to Christians in intent

While here, a Harvard Light thought to declare

That war's no worse than crossing Harvard Square

And then, his euphemistic quipping done

He promptly got a job in Washington

For gentle refutation, if we had

One seething acre of, say, Stalingrad,

And slyly carpeted the Square with it,

Our valiant humorist would then admit

(Though stationed in the Yard, or more extremely)

The sound was harsh, the odor quite unseemly.

We might continue in this vein with ardor

To fright ourselves with shapes of sanctioned murder.

We might,--but won't. Good taste would soon revile

A shabby sentiment so out of style

However, this nice dainty-squeamish fashion,

Our college friend, the general in his passion,

All neglect or else refuse to see

That war, although for some an outdoor spree

Is far the worst and poorest means we've got

To solve the international Gordian knot;

The ragged knife presumes the sleeping skill

That should have coiled the rope unknotted still

The crystal eye and calmly piercing mind

That see why vicious lemming hoardes are blind,

Not wits to belt-produce a million tanks

These, these distinguish us from Fascist ranks.

The vital nucleus light of our four years

Has been the quest to see beyond veneers,

But purple cloaks this true necessity,

So favor calls a dexterous slave the key.

The war has come; (some almost breathe its breath);

Our course--to see it to its clouded death.

If rule, then, and this our sight divorce their lives,

The knots will grow again, and for them knives.