SUNDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1983
2
THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
PAGE FIVE
Gabrilowitsch to Entertain Music Lovers Next Week
Famous Pianist, Son-in-Law of Mark Twain, to Appear in:Next Concert Attraction
When Osap Güberlowitsch, world famous pianist, appears here under the auspices of the University Concert Hall, he will be in 2013 in the auditorium; music lovers will have the privilege of hearing the man who is both distinguished conductor of the Detroit Symphony orchestra as a painter, composer, and lecturer.
Mr. Gabrielowitsch was born in Petersburg, Russia, in 1878, and decided at the age of nine, to dev his career to music, when Ani Grabovich became a natural musician. In 1890 Gabrielowitsch gave his first public reci appearing in the principal cities Europe. He came to America 1900, establishing himself so fire in this country that he moved to New York. He decided to make the United States his home. He has been an Ame can citizen for a number of yea In 1909 he married Clara Clem daughter of Samuel L. Clem and herself a size of distinction.
The School of Fine Arts chose for the concert course and is now him the highest fee ever paid a plist to appear at the University, cording to Dean Donald M. Swan out, of the School of Fine Arts. Gabalowitch, has given few vato recitals in the past few years but he is on a leave of absence at the University to have him as the second number on our University Concert Court said Dean Swantbout.
- A reduced jicee on the remain concert course tickets in home office to students. They may be seen only at the Fine Arts office.
Criminology Professor Meets Strange I
Portland, Orc, Orc. Oct. 27—Dr. Albert Schreiber, Professor erinology at University of Tampa, dean of the North Pacific Ocean, the most widely known criminals in the country, was found dead in a mysterious circumstances here to Decter Schoenel's body was to stancing and fencing against the terrorist by a truck driver.
Woman Can't Stop Car. Drives Till Out of
St. Louis, Mo., Oct. 27—St. I. police told today of finding a we in an automobile on a sidewalk explained
"I don't know how to drill started of its own, accord an being driving around the city all waiting for it to run out of gas. Police later found Vester Davi in a city Hospital, suffer numerous cuts and abrasions, we were taken to a hospital right at 10:30 when he attempted crank it with the woman alone in driver's seat.
Davis added he fell off the after clinging to the crank, the der and the radiator cap.
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Carnegie Medal to Kansas Man
The juniors, Oct 27- (UP) — The seniors, Jan. 10- (UP) — The entered 12 medals posthumously upon persons who lost their lives while放入了成份于墓地。Forest W. Loyd of Phillipsburg, Kan.
Carnegie Medal te Kansas Man
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PAGE TWO
THE MAGAZINE SECTION OF THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN for October 28,1928
A BOAT AND TELESCOPE
DOWRY
My dream house.
Then I met you;
broom house
W
To cherry tree and a maple
Asters to make a row
Breathe to my heart
Lovely liness. Did I carry candles tall
To light my glow. Will it hall
Ne I've a baby.
That love shines through.
W'll we?
S ni n blue th
T th
A not a t al f al
Bave's
thdementi
THE PLAZA
Dreams!
I was bor
to liev
pire
my head
battie
the weel bed on with my line
to grow old -
labor to asi
thom to see
writing
in the mud
and
a mark to show
no morn
while buns, no soiling of
garment.
Out in the world of men there is sin and evil, and there are the righteous who labor with love and infinite pity to make straight the way of the world; but I was not born in the land of the earth and lived in the way of the lonely who go nowhere in it. I shall sit on a hill apart, and slog of all that I see. I shall made the good man see his own goodness and knit it for good; and the bad man his own badness and knew it for ill. In my dire裁 I shall see the ones, which others in my days have to do to me. I shall sing of this Truth till the laborer cause from his labor, the master forget he is master, and the slave he is slave, and men shall drink in my song like good wine, and so at last fall into a sleep.
— George Edgar Walfe
—George Edgar Wolfe
—Rhedamanthi
(Honorable mention in the Carruth Poetry Prize
contest for 18.7.)
PHI BETA KAPPA
PHI BETA KAPPA
Here is a typwriter.
And here three pillows.
For my head.
A a shelf with books on
to read to
Paper and pen,
And all I need
To be scholastic,
And here am I.
Reading a magazine
Called Ace High.
Jane Krieg
"HERE LIETH"
What will they think,
Finding me lying
Still, when they never
Knew I was dying?
The night is dark,
And presently I
Shall switch off the light
And quietly die.
What will they do,
Seeing me there?
Call in the parson
To say a prayer.
Wistarla Overhangs my lattice, And my heart.
Pull up the sheet
Over my face,
And argue concerning
My burial place.
—Eunice Wallace
—Phadamanth
WISTARIA
The tendrils
Like your fingers
Shender twining . . .
Burning my throat.
— Eunice Welling
The blossoms
Like your mouth
Clinging . . . clinging . . .
RAGUOY
Little
I have be
you indeed,
You gone to seed
And to cam wake you
It was ever so,
That I should know,
A rose by its red-prose name.
When I had lost the saue-
It is my most peculiar failing.
— Ada J. Store
—Adu Jo Sage
TO THE FRANKLIN MOUNTAINS
Great mountains, you who first saw man
Crawl from the womb of Earth into the light
And scratch the desert surface there to plant
Pale corn, to hunt the leaping long-eared hare
With thonged stick and nicely balanced stone;
Who watched the black hairied women shape the
earth
Into rough pots, bake them, and with deft hands Paint them with fire-black pictures of your peaks, Or saw them when the corn was garnered in Crushing the kernel in their grinding stones Sigging, perhaps, a song of four weird words; And when the bright sun rolled through half the day Saw the brown tree in earlief feet diced He shaved the leaves in cheese puddle Shaking their pebbled gourds in rhythm best Worshipping gods of growth, of sun and earth More ancient than the odest of your stones; Great mountains, look upon the town Belching black smoke from factory and fire. A pile of unyly structures in the waste Wherein men tell with heavy heads Bent towards earth, hor look upon the sky Am I afraid? Am I afraid? See them in buildings worshipping blind gods In self-darkness where the sunlight dies And truth is twisted on the rack of rule. They have forgot your wisdom and your age Considering man himself the only sage.
(Honorable mention in the Carroth Poetry Prize context for 1928).
"A SWORD UPSTAIRS"
—Avis Marjory Metchalje
I have three thoughts inside my head,
Two are white but the last is red,
So I must hide it beneath the bed
In the darkest corner of all.
I have three windows near the sky,
a row of books to study by,
a candle gry that soon will die
Lost in its own bright tears.
And when they climb up to my room,
To dust and sweep it with a broom—
I shall be looking at the moon
And never mind at all.
NIGHT SCENE
Near the cold yellow moon,
In the blue dark sky,
Two pale blue clouds
In quiet lie.
Clusters of tree,
Glistening white,
Make dark purple blotches.
In the indigo night.
A wise-crack turneth away rath; but a dirty dig stirth up anger.
EPITAPH
Here what is mortal of her lies Entombed beneath the pensive skies.
This is her grave on the lonely hill
Where the whims wind is never still,
And the trembling trees and the wistful rain
Tenderly murmur a dim refrain.
While time lives this will be her home:
Never again will she fancy roar
Oh mine through the mist that sleeps down
It lies in the distant town;
Never again will she warm eyes gaze
With mine at the world beyond the haze,
Striving to pierce through its mystery.
Never rain—for her soul is free.
Here on the hill she be lies.
Never "sun-lit" for her soul is free.
Here we have her body lies,
Her hands are like flies flee
High with the rapturous wind, and abrupt
Roof in the happy-colored clouds,
Flames in the r. e-sel lits of the west;
Tiridia in the soft-founded bread,
Loom in the heart of all beauty things;
Only her nails are here; again
Her skin lives in the sun and the rain,
She is with the brooding, beating night,
One with the stars and the pale moon night,
One with the earth and the sea,
One with the soul of Eternity.
Only her flesh is claimed by the soil.
She lives in the endless dream of God.
-Edwin Tutt Frederickson.
(Winner of the first prize in the William Herbert
Carruth Memorial Poetry Contest for 1928.)
IN GRAPH
I wonder if, in some tar after life,
I could find all the hidden mysteries
Grapped out for me in forms of line and space—
If all would be for me as I have thought?
Could there be all the little mule leaves
Would she be able to tell tips
Reflecting sun in flashing planes of light?
Could I find there the hidden souls of flowers
Traced out in their fair harmonies of line?
Or sea shells? take in limanac and spiral?
Could I find there the surging mountain crests
Of atoms waves of thunder tones of bans
And if they were not the stars? are they?
Could I look through some unraind bleat
And we live in large the path of infra-red
Or terrmon threads of ultra-violet light?
And could I even find the wondrous way
God his graphed out the whelsh universe
And and stars and satellites and dust
In all the things that shape space—
For only He may bind the Pleasures.
Or loose the bonds that hold Orion fast,
Under the X-coordinate of Time
Any Y of space—there be measured all
To the constant Alpha we call Love
The other thing is that he must
And if I could but find my own small curve
Bounded between the mortal envelopes
Of Birth and Death, and stretching out afar
From minus past to plus infinity,
Which both meets at the proceeds from God!
And if I could discern the paths it crossed
With the stars, with mine
And was congruent for a little way,
Or was invoiced as cosine with sine,
Or if it lay apart and bone and far—
Oh, if there are no factors like in both,
Twerve but a dimelal curve of pain, and I
Would pray that God stretch out His mighty
And make crasure of me for all that.
—Nina Ruth Wintera
—Rhodamnithi
(Honorable mention in the Carruth Poetry Prize)
SONNET
Long have I thought that I could never give
And answer to love's lips upon my own.
I thought that through blue autumn I would live
Nor ever find reply in summer's drone
Of bees in heavy flowers. I could dream
Through spring's pale loveliness and never see
Love's image bright-reflected in the stream,
Or hear his horns across the silver sea.
Today I knew—and echo of past laughter!—
That a lady's mouth is sweet against my eyes,
The warm rose die, the fragrance lingers after,
And dying sinuses gladden evening skies.
So he can give me attake of the roses.
A moment's light before the darkness closes.
—Evince Wallace in The Harp
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