SOLD-OUT CROWD CHEERS TALENT SHOW

Sarah McAndrew played a toccata by Katchaturian, juggler Logan Mills brought the sold-out house to its feet, and the guitar duo of Camille Shaffman and Emma Lumley played Camille's tune "Strength." The photos show the Faculty Chorus singing a song from "Rent" with new lyrics by Mr Falcone, and a string quartet of Alexandra Burkot, Rachel Finlayson, Molly Finlayson and Rebecca Haynes playing Joaquin Turina's "Prayer of the Bullfighter."

Andrew Beaubian, Jordan Hom, Tom Slater, and Xavier Stone played "Wolf" on guitar, organ and bass. Savannah and Scout Wallace, Logan Mills, Jake Van Leer played and sang "Just in Love," and GHOTI ( Sterling Alden, Parker Hatch, Will Kermond and Peter Kraus ) played "Susie Q." The MCs were Pat Doherty, Brendan Donahue and Ben Rimmer.

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A MEMORY OF SEPTEMBER 11TH

David Bernstein, class of 2009, wrote this essay for Ms Alsup's senior writing seminar. From time to time we'll post essays, fiction and other writing by students. All students are invited to submit their work to a teacher to be forwarded to Life and Times. Click "read more" to see the complete essay.

Just over seven years ago, it happened. This event changed America, changed the world, changed the way we view the globe. It was not expected, was not thought to be possible, and certainly was not believed to ever happen by the average American. Ever. One plan. One terrorizing plan halted the world in the midst of its daily routine. Stopped the world from turning. We will never forget it, that sunny, brisk morning of September 11, 2001.

Everyone remembers where they were. I was in elementary school, amidst my naive friends. We were in our own world, clueless that we would soon face the reality of death of thousands of innocent people in the world we preteens believed was completely safe. Free of all worries, my buddy and I battled out a Jenga match while munching on Doritos, our preferred cheesy snack food. We took turns yanking out small wooden blocks. On and on this match continued, the cheese from our fingers creating a fire effect on the wooden slabs. Finally, one last jerk from my friend and our tower crumbled to the desk below, its rubble everywhere. As I celebrated my win with a bottle of victory soda, the school’s intercom woke from its slumber. “Everyone to the auditorium NOW! No exceptions!” Then a click, and God was gone. In my five long years, I had never heard such a call. My teacher, bewildered, directed us into a straight line and led us to our designated spot in the auditorium. The school’s principal and vice principal arrived shortly after us, clearly distraught about a recent event. After a quick mike check, the principal began to speak.

“A terrible, horrific, unthinkable event has happened on our country’s shores,” he announced. I obviously had no idea what the principal meant as he struggled to remain calm.

“The school district has deemed it necessary for the safety of its children to send you all home immediately upon confirmation that a parent will be available. Please remain quietly seated as we call you up alphabetically. Thank you.”

I was only ten years old; it was clear something was very wrong; but in reality, I was ecstatic to be sent home. What ten year old wouldn’t be? Everyday, I would wake up thinking of that secret plan to weasel my way out of going to school and on this day I was actually being sent home. Crazy.

My mother fought through the heaps of traffic and rescued my best friend and me from the chaos at the school. We drove home in silence. I asked why. The only response I got was a shake of the head and urging to just wait until we all got home safely. As we unpacked the car, my mother made it clear that an unthinkable event had occurred and the TV and radio would have the best, most current facts. We turned on the box. Headlines raced across the bottom and top of the screen, while people yelled and a gray matter filled in the rest of the screen. It wasn’t static. It was smoke.

Watching the screen, I soaked in the horrific images. This was not the typical news footage and every news crew was airing live. There was no censor. I watched in utter horror as people propelled themselves from the twin towers, falling to their deaths. Their only hope to survive was to jump, but it didn’t work. I was, at this point, terrified. Never had I ever began to imagine such an event could even occur on our country’s soil. As I continued to watch, my mom came up behind me and gave my friend and me a hug. Finally, I felt safe.

We tend to associate anniversaries with happy memories. A birthday, a marriage, or a relationship. However, we all know this is different. No other anniversary has changed the current culture of our country. Subconsciously, another terrorist attack looms in the back of our minds. Security has been heightened from the airports to the city corners. People now glance nervously at a small piece of luggage left alone when once upon a time, it was the norm to leave your bags and go grab a bite to eat or run to the bathroom. Risks are no longer taken. On this anniversary we should all pause to remember how our world has been changed and the people we have lost. We may be working or playing or doing neither, but we must stop. They deserve it. The innocent people remain engraved in our nation’s history and in most of our hearts.

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WHAT REGULATES THE BUOYANCY OF BONY FISH? WHAT IS THE SOLUTION SET FOR THE EQUATION 4 + 3 TIMES THE ABSOLUTE VALUE OF (Y-5) EQUALS 7?

Quiz Bowl coach and social studies teacher Bill Murphy writes: Last Saturday's round robin with teams from nine high schools was just for the fun of it and didn't count towards the upcoming Vermont and New Hampshire state tournaments. The Vermont tournament will begin here at Hanover on Sunday afternoons November 2nd and November 16th at 2 PM.

The Hanover team on Saturday was -- top photo, left to right -- Nick O'Leary, Ari Brown, Olivia Marshall, Asie Makarova and Gabe Brison.

Vermont teams came from Fair Haven, North Country, Burr & Burton and Spaulding; the New Hampshire schools were Laconia, Portsmouth Christian Academy, Londonderry, Winnisquam and Hanover. Four students came down from Dartmouth to enter a team, including Hanover alum Dan Hopkins, class of 2006 (bottom photo). So there were about fifty students participating. The playoffs included a thrilling match between the Dartmouth team and the high-school coaches. Dartmouth won 15-14 with a quick response to the question, "What is the term for a financial option that gives you the right to buy stock at a certain price?" (Answer: a call.)

Click "read more" for the answers to these Quiz Bowl questions:

1. Which US state that borders on Canada extends the farthest south?
2. What structure regulates the buoyancy of bony fish?
3. What form of government was overthrown during the 1917 revolution in Russia?
4. The set of possible values of an independent variable of a function is a ...
5. What is the solution set for this equation? 4 plus 3 times the absolute value of (y-5) = 7
ANSWERS: 1. Idaho, 2. air (gas, swimming) bladder, 3. monarchy, 4. domain, 5. answer 4,6

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IN REBUS ANGUSTIS ALMAM RECOLUIT

The Advanced Latin class visited the Dartmouth College cemetery and translated the elaborate Latin inscription on a 188-year-old tombstone. It commemorates Francis Brown, who served as president of the college and defended its independence when the state legislature tried to make the college into a state university. Our headline translates as, "He revived his alma mater in difficult circumstances." The inscription contains several figures of speech found in Latin poetry that the class is reading. Mr Buck has offered extra credit to any student who does research to find out the author of this Latin inscription.

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HIT YOUR TEACHER WITH A PIE, RAISE MONEY FOR AFRICAN CLINICS

Five brave teachers, some dressed in garbage bags, shower caps or lab goggles, encouraged students (and one teacher!) to throw pies at them last week in the atrium.
Rachel Woods, class of 2010, writes: Mr. Falcone got it easy, wearing a lab coat and goggles. Mr. Donnelly, however, ended up with pie in his hair, face, and all over his orange polo shirt. Although students would not need an excuse to pie their teachers, there was a purpose to the pie-ing. For three years now, the annual Teacher Pie-ing has been the opening fundraiser for Operation Day's Work, a student club that supports a different charitable organization each calendar year. The 2008 project is the Kigutu Health Clinic run by Partners in Health in the African country of Burundi. The clinic provides healthcare at a minimal cost to people in the village of Kigutu, with an emphasis on treating and preventing AIDS, malaria, and tuberculosis. The $226 raised by Mr. Falcone, Mr. Donnelly, Ms. Alsup, Mr. Jenisch, Mr. Lavigne and the students of Hanover High will go directly to the clinic. Thank you to all these teachers, MC Jake VanLeer, and the custodial staff who made it possible!

The photos show, from left, Mr. Falcone, before and after; Ms. Alsup, holding a sign asking "Have you ever seen such cruelty?" from the movie Blazing Saddles; and Mr. Donnelly smushed by Emma Rottersman, class of 2010.

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SIX PICKED FOR ALL-NEW-ENGLAND BANDS

Congratulations to six HHS band members who have been chosen to participate in the All New England Band Festival at Plymouth State University in November. The student musicians are Zach Sheets, flute; Kevin Dade, flute; Miriam Fiering, oboe; Jahn White, french horn; Aaron Watanabe, euphonium; and Dan Carroll, tuba. These music students will rehearse and perform with others from around New England in a concert with renowned guest conductors.

The festival's invitation says: "These bands will provide a memorable musical and educational experience for the proficient music student. Participants will be chosen on the basis of instrumentation needs, director’s recommendation, past musical achievements, and seniority in school. Acceptance into the Festival Bands is quite competitive."

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COLLEGES VISITING TO MEET SENIORS

At least 42 colleges will send representatives to meet HHS students this year. They come from as close by as the University of New Hampshire and Lebanon College, and as far as Pomona College (California) and the University of Colorado at Boulder. The photos show students meeting with (left) a representative of Lehigh University and HHS Guidance Director John McCracking; and (right) a representative from Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The schedule of visits is posted outside the Guidance office and in the Guidance section of this web site.

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MY TEN YEARS OF FIGURE-SKATING: RETURN TO ME THE ILLUSION; I'LL RETURN TO YOU MY PAIN!

Jessica Liu, class of 2009, wrote this essay for Ms. Alsup's Senior Writing Seminar. From time to time we'll post essays, fiction and other writing by students. All students are invited to submit their work to a teacher to be forwarded to Life and Times. Click "read more" to see the complete essay.

Have you ever watched figure skaters on TV? Is it not amazing how they cut so swiftly across the rink on those thin metal blades? Is it not incredible the way they fly into the air and become mere colored blurs in suspension? And how marvelous is it that when they come down again, the ice catches them like a cushion as they glide away effortlessly? It must be so liberating to be a figure skater, to command such inhuman movement with such grace and ease. This was my conviction as a child. This was my delusion.

As a young skater struggling to stay on my feet, tripping over my first crossovers, crashing my first half-revolution jumps, I would always look towards the older skaters spinning freely in arabesque and convince myself that my clumsy labors would someday be worth it. I thought, there must come a time in a skater’s career when innate grace simply transcends physicality and beauty of motion inevitably manifests. Indeed, the evidence was right before me: in the girl whose tiny ankles somehow sprang her high into the air, or the girl whose ponytail came undone from the sheer speed of her beautiful rotations. Surely for them it was easy. After all, they weren’t falling over their feet or flailing their arms wildly anymore. They must have discovered some magic ability within themselves that suddenly made everything feasible, a secret I myself was bound to uncover one day. …What a pathetically naive thought. Nevertheless, for years I endured the lackluster pains of training with this hope that it would all become effortless in due time.

Eventually there came the day when I suddenly realized that I was one of those older skaters I had I always admired. That awkward spin that was straining my back and killing my thighs was the exact same move that had so stunned me with its elegance years before. Those jumps that had seemed impossible when I was a child, I had already mastered a few months ago. In fact, not only had I reached the level of my idols of old, but I had surpassed many of them. Thus came the dread epiphany: figure skating was a lie. I had been bewitched by an illusion of beauty, had reached my goals only to realize the impossibility of their fulfillment. There I stood, at the point where young skaters looked up to me for inspiration, and the truth was, it still hurt.

Everything still hurt, and I realized then that it would always hurt. Sure, I could lap the rink in seconds, and it’s all very well to feel my hair whip out behind me, except that the air against which I throw myself so forcefully is, well, cold. Out on the ice, ears freeze instantly; eyes water and blur. Each bitter breath is painfully drawn through the mouth, for trying to take in icy air through the nose stings. Cold muscles ache and take twice as long to warm. Staying hydrated is synonymous with “brain freeze.” And forget not that the figure skater’s armor against cold consists of thin spandex and tights. Where is the ease and grace now? Really, what kind of deranged person would voluntarily revisit this hellish icebox day after day? What kind of rewards could one possibly receive to make such a senseless ordeal worthwhile?

Whatever they were, I found them not. Was I supposed to be filled with enormous satisfaction and pride when I landed my first double-salchow? Perhaps I did, for an instant. However, that one success was the accumulation of countless failures. I shudder to think of the number of bruises I have acquired over the years from figure skating alone. Whole winters have gone by without a single day of unmarred legs. I am not so vain to despair over a large purple-green blemish (or five), but when it hurts to even sit down, then the situation starts to seem ridiculous. Indeed it is proof that skating can never get easier, for the harder the jump, the harder the fall.

And what happens in the lucky event of a successful landing? We cheer, we smile, we grit our teeth, and we jump again. Chances are, we’ll fall on the next one. In figure skating, it is a rough, uneven road to mastery, by the end of which the particular move has been executed so many times that it is completely deprived of any novelty. Indeed, there was hardly any novelty to begin with. Just about every trick has been tried before and will be tried again, so that every “new” move is really only an imitation something old. There is no creativity, no spontaneity. Programs to music may suggest an art form, but whatever expressive elements initially existed are lost through endless repetitions and broken by the technicality of the sport. Picture again that figure skater on TV, programmed to glide about with her arms outstretched in the most aesthetically pleasing angles possible. Why then, does she suddenly drop them before the jump? One, the necessary concentration at that moment is such that there is no room to bother with extraneous gestures. Two, she needs momentum from her arms to propel herself higher into the air, thus having them low before takeoff is essential. The concentration and physical requirements for the execution of a jump effectively inhibit any artistic expression within the move itself, a trend which is repeated throughout the many technical facets of the sport. Overall, the creative outlet in figure skating is depressingly small.

But what about that unfaltering smile some skaters have that seems like silent evidence of their love and passion for their sport? That too, is a lie. That smile is put on at the beginning of the program for the benefit of the judges and literally freezes to the face. I insist upon this in all seriousness. Many times I have stepped off the ice in competition, unable to stop smiling, not out of happiness, but because I can’t move my face. Frozen lips also add the extra benefit of restricting certain vowel sounds, so that speech on ice often degenerates to incoherent blabbering. However, the extremity of the figure skater that suffers the most by far is the foot. Those white, delicate-looking boots are really just like a second layer of skin. Stiff, leather skin. It is true that they provide fantastic ankle support. But they also fail at insulation, blister mercilessly, and apply pressure in just the wrong spots so that my feet after skating are numb, red, and over the years have become misshapen with bone spurs.

O, what suffering! How painful! How pointless! And in the end, what was my gain from those many years I spent on the ice? Insight into the true nature of something deceptively beautiful, one might say. My response to that: Return to me the illusion; I’ll return to you my pain!

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FROM BURLINGTON TO BOSTON, NEW ENGLANDERS HEAR ZACH SHEETS'S COMPOSITIONS

Senior Zach Sheets's orchestral composition titled "Midnight Unfolding" will be performed at First Night in Burlington, VT by the 100-person Vermont Youth Orchestra.

"Sometime during the day on December 31st it will be played at the Flynn Theater," Zach says. The Flynn is downtown Burlington's main venue for the arts.

Zach writes: The VYO posted a "call for scores" on an online composition program called the Vermont MIDI Project. The project (www.vtmidi.org) is how I learned to compose, and my pieces have been played eleven times by various ensembles in their biannual competition.

It's an amazing program that works to integrate composition into the school curriculum by having mentors post comments to young composers on the website, through a music notation program called Sibelius. Since HHS doesn't participate, I work as an independent study student. This year I have started to work as both a student and a mentor for some of the younger students.

The VYO has never played any of my pieces before, but I have had pieces played by the Vermont Contemporary Music Ensemble, the Constitution Brass Quintet (in Burlington), and the Arcadian Wind Quintet in Boston. I don't play in the VYO, so I won't be playing flute on my piece. I go down to Boston every Sunday and play in the Boston Youth Symphony.


from the Vermont Midi web site:

For ten years, the Vermont MIDI Project has fostered a community of music educators, professional composer mentors, and pre-service educators who encourage and support music composition for students. Addressing composition in the curriculum for classroom music, theory and composition courses, instrumental and vocal ensembles is being achieved through a variety of activities.

Professional composers and other project participants critique compositions in-progress and make suggestions about possible changes and improvements. This work takes place in a respectful climate with established protocols for this mentoring.
Resources for music composition are gathered and disseminated through a variety of means: print handouts, interactive learning network sessions, lecture/demonstration sessions, and in-school residencies.

Since April 2000, the Opus events have been held each fall and spring. The power of live performance by professional musicians has become a driving force for students in the Vermont MIDI Project. Teachers also encourage live performance of original compositions in their own schools.

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THE LAND OF THE TWELVES

Beryl Frishtick, class of 2009, wrote "A Discourse on the Topic of Women's Enormous Foot Sizes and Society's Reluctance to Bring Said Sizes into Mainstream Shoe-Marketing" for Ms. Alsup's Senior Writing Seminar. From time to time we'll publish essays, fiction and other writing by students. All students are invited to submit their work to a teacher to be forwarded to Life and Times. Click "read more" to see the complete essay.

When I was three years old my family lived in Boston and I attended a daycare center that often took its charges on field trips around the city. More importantly, I had the loveliest pair of black Mary Janes a girl could ever wish for. They were petite, and shiny, and had graceful straps that traversed my delicate feet in just the right places. I remember one spring day in particular; I was sitting with the other children on the bank of the Charles River, watching sailboats make their way back and forth across the sparkling water. This moment plays itself over and over again in my mind not because of the gloriously sunny day, or the excitement of leaving the day-care center, or the immense amount of bird poop that had accumulated on a nearby railing. No, I remember this moment simply because of those too-good-to-be-true Mary Janes. That was a happier time, when shopping for shoes never crushed my spirits, and my feet could fit into beautiful creations that now would not even cover my big toe.

These days, my feet are colossal. They dwarf the everyday objects that surround me: a stapler, a flower vase, a Puffs Plus tissue box, a glass bottle of lemonade, even the Penguin Classics edition of War and Peace. They are not just big - they are gargantuan. I am the proprietor of the type of feet that, averaged together with two tiny shrunken feet belonging to an aristocratic 19th century Chinese woman, would probably make a pair of normal-sized feet. I think about this every night before I fall asleep.
My friends complain about wearing size eight, eight and a half, or nine shoes. Half sizes don't even EXIST where I come from: The Land of the Twelves.I haven't always belonged to this bittersweet (no, just bitter) kingdom. My progression through the Lands of Sevens, Eights, Nines, and Tens occurred too quickly for me to notice or remember anything. It was only when I fit into elevens that I started to feel peculiar about my abnormally large feet. This began when I tried to buy new shoes so I could wear them to all my friends' Bat and Bar Mitzvahs in seventh grade. I didn't understand why all my girl friends were wearing beautiful, cute, fancy strappy sandals and I was relegated to dancing the Horah in depressing brown or black pumps.

It was only later, in 8th grade and my first year of high school, that the state of my feet truly started to distress me. Before that, I hadn't cared what I wore everyday; my usual outfit was accessorized by practical, unfailing sneakers. Suddenly I was invested in how I looked, but unable to do anything about a vital aspect of it: my shoes.

What wearing size twelves means is that it is virtually impossible to walk into a shoe store, browse around, try on a pair of shoes, and fit into them. Fancy shoe stores are absolutely out of the question -- most of them cut off their product lines at size ten. When I was about eight or nine I accompanied my mother into a relatively upscale shoe store in Richmond, Virginia and had a peculiar and discouraging experience. We were perusing the size nines for my mother when I saw a middle-age woman peer into the special tiny room the store used to show their larger sizes. She held up a pair of shoes that were probably size elevens or twelves, turned to her friends, and said, "That's so sad!" This woman obviously did not belong in the back of the store; her feet were covered with fashionable and diminutive high heels. But she had felt it absolutely necessary to go out of her way and choose a pair of big shoes to pick on, and to do that under the guise of expressing her pity for the women who would be forced to wear those shoes. I was young, but I remember feeling confused, angry, and insulted. If I ever see that woman again, I will fill my purple Converse All-Stars with rocks and throw them at her. Due to my "sad" large feet, I should be able to stuff in a couple of good-sized boulders.

Fancy shoe stores aside, Payless Shoestore is the only establishment where I ever have any sort of luck with this frustrating aspect of my life, but since it contains the words "pay" and "less" in its name, you know the quality can"t be that spectacular. In truth, my respect for Payless has diminished increasingly in the past month due to a horrifying and thought-provoking experience I underwent at the company"s franchise in the Mall of New Hampshire. This incident speaks volumes about the hell through which our society puts women with big feet.

On average, this shoe store's cheap but reliable stock can be counted on for including about twenty to thirty pairs of shoes in my size. (Granted, most of them are so ugly or outlandish that no one would buy them. Speaking of which, I'd like to point out that the higher the size climbs, the lower the Pretty Index drops. Grandma Moses with size twelve feet may want to buy black and white knock-off looking Velcro sneakers, but I certainly do not!) I walked into this Payless with lofty hopes and my head held high, but, lo and behold, there was only ONE COLUMN of size twelves. That means about six shoe pairs that would fit my feet, never mind how they looked. It broke my heart, right there under the fluorescent lights and huge signs advertising cute shoe and handbag matches. I immediately retrieved my cell phone and used it to make a thirty-five second video documenting the atrocities to which I am subjected in this cruel world.

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SENORA PENELOPE PRENDERGAST, OCTOBER'S STAFF MEMBER OF THE MONTH

October's staff member of the month is Spanish teacher Senora Prendergast. The selection committee writes: "Senora is optimistic and always has faith in her students. She is also very funny. Her students can expect to laugh in every class. On top of that, she is extremely sharp, and has a treasure trove of knowledge that you can only hope to learn a fraction of. Senora is also extremely hard working. She put a great amount of effort into ensuring the success of the recent student exchange with the Spanish high school. Congratulations, Senora!" And here is the rest of it.

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BIKE CLUB: ANY LEVEL OF RIDER CAN JOIN

Science teacher John Phipps writes: The Bike Club leaves for a ride from in front of the flagpole every Thursday just after school. We've been going out for about an hour recently. The distance depends on who shows up and their level of experience. We adapt the ride to any level of rider.

Bike Club also meets during Activity Period on Tuesdays in room 230 to talk cycling, work on bikes and plan rides. Those interested in riding the road on Thursdays or planning rides on either trails or the road on other days are welcome to join us.

The Club took part in Bike to School Day on October 8th. Photo, left to right, Jake McLaughlin, Mr. Phipps, Scott Sanderson, chemistry teacher Mr. Lavigne.

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DAVID BERNSTEIN, OCTOBER STUDENT OF THE MONTH

David Bernstein is Hanover High’s October Student of the Month.
David is a serious, insightful and involved student who lives his life proactively and makes things happen. He sees the school's needs and then volunteers before he’s asked. He’s a member of Council, on the baseball and basketball teams and has served on the Judicial Committee. David gets along with a wide variety of students and is one of the most polite and considerate of HHS students.

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SIXTY INTENSIVE COURSES PLANNED FOR NEXT MARCH: FROM "SHAKESPEARE ON FILM" TO "SCUBA CERTIFICATION"

This coming March Hanover High will again change from regular classes to offer four-day courses in a wide variety of topics, taught by staff, parents and other local residents with special experience and expertise. In some courses students will team with adults to help teach.

March Intensive was offered for the first time in March 2008. This year's courses will be held from March 17-20, 2009 and include 42 courses that last for four full days; nine that last for half days, which students will mix and match; and nine extended trips, usually lasting a week.

A sample of the topics: International Humanitarian Law; The Joy of Local Food; A Week in the Life of Local Government; The School of Athens (Mural Art); Exploring Opportunities Helping Children in Local Hospitals; Fencing Workshop; Garage Band and Mixing Music; German Food & Film; Survival Japanese; Chamber Music Coaching & Master Class; Mind-Blowing Physics; Boston Area College Tour; Vehicle Maintenance and Repair; Habitat for Humanity; Shakespeare on Film; Scuba Diving Certification class; and many others.To view the current March Intensive offerings, you can go to: http://intensive.dresden.us

The stained-glass window hanging in the cafeteria was produced by last year's March Intensive stained-glass workshop, which will be offered again this year.

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OUR LITTLE LIVES ARE NAUGHT BUT WAKING DREAMS, AN LIFE BE SLEEP ...

From time to time we'll publish essays, fiction and other writing by students. All students are invited to submit their work to a teacher to be forwarded to the blog. Xavier Stone, class of 2011, wrote "Seven Ages of Man" for Ms. D'Amato's Shakespeare class. Click "read more" to see the complete poem.

Our little lives are naught but waking dreams,
An life be sleep then we be things unreal,
Who cross a cobbled path on broken wheel,
That meekly rest 'twixt seven drifting streams.

The first is well adorned with Flora's wreaths,
Its waters clear and free from stain of sin,
The Infant's glimpse of truth is set aspin,
And blown away across the hills and heaths.
This minty leaf of new experience,
The Infant's green is Nature's gold anew,
The hatching egg, the taming of the shrew,
Untouched by Hell and praised by innocence.

But soon the water paints on this leaf rot,
A fool phoenix born from Infant ash,
The clown inside makes thoughtful action rash,
Obedience resideth in him not.

The third stream is, as drifting time, a charm,
A scholar of the young but learnèd age,
Passion and thoughts of glory in him rage,
Who from his study does the world no harm.
Then dam removèd and old bindings broke,
The once well-kindled Scholar set aflame,
That like red fire consumeth all the same,
Once first he hath consumed his kindred yoke.
Th' Explorer of the road hath found new mint,
And with it glory's currency he'll coin,
The world is his 'til lockèd by his loin,
And thus a Father must begin his stint.
Like olives laid upon Atlas' peak,
The Father puts his hands beneath the sky,
For breaching limits – straying up too high,
Thou'd lose'st thy grip and meander down the creek.
But Father's life is not his only care,
For his forbidden fruit hath left its womb,
And loss of offspring digeth all men's tomb,
For th' Infant must a Father be aware.

But as the bond of Father-child groweth,
The bond a bind becometh – made of toil,
For weeding sudden's remedy for spoil,
The Warden must his Father-power showeth.
But intellect is not akin to wise,
And mint hath not the flavour that doth sage,
A gift acquirèd but through loss, in age,
The grandsire clock, the man of owl's eyes.

As Father teacheth child so learn him sire,
For innocence and fool left him of long,
The Wiseman knows all right and sees all wrong,
And must his knowledge leave ere he expire.

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