: The Yale literary magazine (Vol. LXXXIX No. 3 December 1923) by Various - Yale University Periodicals; College students' writings American Connecticut New Haven Periodicals

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e privileged to enjoy both have always done so. They are quite immune from our disease.

There is one course left, requiring no end of patience and care. But its cure is certain. Moreover, it is within reach of us all--the busy and the idle, the radical and the conservative. We can make ourselves consciously challenge all ideas, opinions, theories which are foisted upon us--by others, or by our own sluggish minds. We must convince ourselves in every case that they are right or wrong, and once convinced, act fearlessly. Here is no place for timidity. We shall now vote as we choose, defying the dictates of the crowd. Ideas thoroughly analyzed and considered may wield tremendous power. They have not the hollow sound of an echo. Theirs is the true ring of the voice. All the Leagues for Peace in the world are a waste of time unless each member has implicit belief in the worth and need of peace. Progressive changes in college administration will never be promoted by jabbering repetition of "current opinion". They will come only when a majority of us have quietly and firmly convinced ourselves that such changes are right and necessary. Then you have solidarity, which is uniformity of convictions and not conventions. Further, you have accomplishment and progress. The old lamp is cleansed of its water, and now at last pierces the darkness. Some dry wood is thrown upon the smouldering fire, and the flames rise high above the countryside.

WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR.

I raise my face to evening's veil Beneath whose folds the trees grow pale, And as its darkening shred-skeins crown The yellow fields, they turn to brown, While now a black brook bubbles down, Star-touched, across the fading trail.

It is the hour when spirits steal Along the path, and I can feel The strange close-shouldering of those Who dwell among the dim hedgerows, Whispering things nobody knows, And making every fancy real.

The wakened eyes of moonlit dew At times evoke your glance, and you; Your bosom forms the hill's incline, Your tresses are the trailing vine: The dark has sometimes made you mine-- A vision formed by tears, looked-through.

DAVID GILLIS CARTER.

I

The bed is rich with gilt and jet, The silken sheets are edged with lace. Death watches on the coverlet A withered face.

II

The courtiers chant their false lament, Professing each his sorrow here; A ghostly priest gives sacrament. The end is near.

The droning voices whisper low; And listless threads of incense rise. Tall pontificial candles glow; A noble dies.

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