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WITHOUT WORDS
Over the wind-lashed sand I walk alone; Between ns lies the still unfathomed sea, And there is nothing but the heart's mute call
To bring your voice to me.
My thoughts go outward bound to that far shore From which you climb to heights I cannot know, Since all the moments that we held so dear Were lost long, long ago/
A wave creeps to my feet: a gull drifts down, So close its silver wing could touch my cheek. Oh, is it only thus you answer now, —
Now that you cannot speak?
— Eugenia T. Finn
JOURNEY'S END
(To a Young Repatriated Soldier) The journey which began five years ago Is ended, and the cycle is complete. Now you are home . . . home to beloved hills Which once have known the imprint of your
feet Tracking the grouse, the rabbit and the fox; Which loitered where the huckleberries made The hillside, and your eyes, as blue as
heaven. Where carefree laughter was a serenade To summer's gifts. The secret swimming
hole; The hidden shack high on a sunlit hill Where you have dreamed a half-awakened
dream, Or lain to watch the white shad-bushes spill Their misty coins against the gathering dusk. These hills shall hold the cameo of youth In paths starred through the scarlet pimpernel. We leave you cradled in their royal dust. Taps sound their poignant notes . . . sleep » well! Sleep well!
— Eunice Mildred LonCoske
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LIFE'S STAGE
Ah. Petulant One, Are you sure we have the time For these small scenes — Scenes with the downcast eye. The frown, the sigh.
They take from Spring Her sweet perfume What then from us — Who now have Summer's bloom?
Open then your heart, my love.
And read the lines —
That cleanse the hurt
Why let it there abide — inside
We who should love and laugh
away The few scenes left We. have to play.
— Nancy Cavanagh
By TED MALONE
Be sure to listen to Ted Malone's morning program, Monday through Friday at 11:30 EST, over ABC.
FOOLISH VIRGIN
Sue made a fool out of her man,
She was so honey-mouthed and cool.
Much cleverer was Maryanne — She made a man out of her fool.
— Florence Denison
RADIO MIRROR will pay fifty dollar*
for the best original poem sent in each month by a reader. Five dollars will be paid for each other original poem used on the Between the Bookends pages in Radio Mirror. Limit poems to 30 lines, and address to Ted Malone, Radio Mirror, 205 E. 42, N. Y. 17, N. Y. When postage is enclosed, every effort will be made to return unused manuscripts. This is not a contest, but an offer to purchase poetry for our Bookends pages.
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FIRE5 WARM THE BODV THANKSGIVING THOUGHTS WARM THE MIND