Time

Girl In however she moves, the nature is uppermost, sunburned skin, hyacinth eyes. And she is a portrait of stance, magnet degree throwback of an appearance giving joy. The girl is beautiful and probably good. You can think it so, in the sylvan, slim half-gestures; arms, limbs and as smooth as bamboo in her unparalleled phases and lack of self-conscious disorientation. She lives on a farm, and of that same species wordless; no need to invent. Walking through wet grass, instep and foot are temperate, yet circumspect of origin; she is history of a blossom. And like wit, the challenge unrivalled by any other glowing raiment flower in the field. —Jane Mayhall MSt. a m Time My butterfly, my butterfly, My pretty swift-winged day. You suck the honey from my lips And then you flit away. How can you go when there is yet So much that's left untasted Of life and love and happiness. Of sweet caress and tenderness. Oh, fickle love, capricious love, That with no warning given Should let me idle by your side As tho you'd stay forever. —Clay Ellis High ...