1922 Yearbook
Source URL
Title
1922 Yearbook
Description
The Ambrosian
To a Postman
Slowly the moon drifts o'er the sky,
Slowly the tide rolls in ;
Slowly the lover says "Good-bye",
Slowly the three fates spin.
Slowly the flowers peep through in the
Spring,
Slowly the sea turns blue,
Slowly flies Time on its leaden wing,
But there's nothing so slow as you.
Lucier's Fish Song
Beneath the bonny quince bush
In the flippant month of May,
I can hear the mackerel calling
With the fervor of their play.
Who am I that I should keep them
From kicking up the dike
As they do a funny one-step
With the salmon and the pike?
For that is neither here nor there—
Naught to myself or to Mike.
Yet from beneath the quince bush
A young sardine has strayed away.
She has gone to seek the white lights.
Ah, what will happen, who can say?
There's a wild and peevish murmur
From the blue-gills and the bass!
There is blood among the catfish
Over green and garden sass!
And the bull-heads, fighting grimly,
Halt the clams—they shall not pass!
And now beneath the quince bush
In the callous month of May
I can hear the mackerel calling
In the sunset's last dead ray.
One Hundred Sixty-one
To a Postman
Slowly the moon drifts o'er the sky,
Slowly the tide rolls in ;
Slowly the lover says "Good-bye",
Slowly the three fates spin.
Slowly the flowers peep through in the
Spring,
Slowly the sea turns blue,
Slowly flies Time on its leaden wing,
But there's nothing so slow as you.
Lucier's Fish Song
Beneath the bonny quince bush
In the flippant month of May,
I can hear the mackerel calling
With the fervor of their play.
Who am I that I should keep them
From kicking up the dike
As they do a funny one-step
With the salmon and the pike?
For that is neither here nor there—
Naught to myself or to Mike.
Yet from beneath the quince bush
A young sardine has strayed away.
She has gone to seek the white lights.
Ah, what will happen, who can say?
There's a wild and peevish murmur
From the blue-gills and the bass!
There is blood among the catfish
Over green and garden sass!
And the bull-heads, fighting grimly,
Halt the clams—they shall not pass!
And now beneath the quince bush
In the callous month of May
I can hear the mackerel calling
In the sunset's last dead ray.
One Hundred Sixty-one
Date
1922
Rights
St. Ambrose University, 518 W. Locust St., Davenport, IA 52803
Identifier
http://cdm16810.contentdm.oclc.org/cdm/ref/collection/p16810coll2/id/8235