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R | C H E S

D” you KNow that Art students are the very luckiest people in all
the world? Do you realize that they have thrown in their lot with
that great “army of Peter Pans,” the children who never grow old?

They are of those who waken each morning to a new adventure—
and who find the longest life too short and each day having too few hours.

In their search for the principles which lie behind a “work of art,”
they unwittingly discover the basic principles of life itself—of living—
of human relationships—and of all the arts and philosophies.

They know the joy of working with their hands and the creator’s
satisfaction of having “made things” — things first conceived in clear
minds and throbbing hearts.

They are well informed by senses kept sensitive and aware by
constant seeking for quality—in form, in colour, in touch; and in a deep
reverent worship of beauty.

And eventually—if they are lucky,—they even get paid for living
this life of bliss!

R E A L | T ad

—In appreciation of a lecture on poetry by ALLAN CRAWLEY.

I walked along the street By streams,
And as 1 passed— On mountain tops,
The hoardings seared into my consciousness In women’s laughter,
Their ugly threat And in children’s fun.
Of War, and Carnage, and belief My heart grew light.
That grim “reality” The happy hour sped by,
Is of such things as these; But lingering still
Materialistic—selfish—graspingly concerned Within me
Only with what the eye can see (Although days and weeks have passed)
And the hand hold; Is joyous truth
And sick at heart Which whispers—
I turned and entered in Reality” is not grim,
To sit awhile beside a poet blind And seeks not to possess,
Within a quiet room, But lives in giving
Where other tired creatures sat in groups And in reaching out
To listen for an hour And up,
To how the inner eye may see Reality is of a tender growth,
When outward sight is not. A Constructive,
I closed my eyes and entered in with him That will not be coerced,
To his green world But lives within
Where poets wandered The heart of every loving
And the bards of these and other years Growing thing.
All sang together It is the will to be
Through this one man’s voice. to give
hey sang of love and rapture, to feel
And of ecstasy; to be aware!
Of _¢lover-laden air So in my heart sprang up an evergreen
Rain-drenched, Which breathed
And searched for hidden beauty For the blind poet
In the woods, A PRAYER.

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