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SMAD. An Organ of Student Opinion. 1934. Volume 5. Number 6.



Blow the tempest ever harder—
What care I?—come, harder, harder.
Smoke the foam in moon-lit haloes,
Wind-swept at our very feet;
Let the rock which forms our throne
Be circled, aye, with bubbling groan—
Could there be a better spot
For lovers twain to meet?

Waves crash louder, louder, louder;
Thresh the flying spume to powder,
And my darling's little hand
Seeks mine each time the monster raves;
Let the tempest's gibes wax grosser,
If the while she nestles closer
For assurance of protection
From the loudly raging waves.

B. A. S.