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SMAD. An Organ of Student Opinion. 1937. Volume 8. Number 8.

Premonition

Premonition.

I know not what I have done.
But this morning, no tree fingers stretch into the sun.
Low clouds scowl and cower like angry dogs.
Flowers stand, carven fragile jade that might break in any breeze
The sea lies shuddering, grey and silver as soulless glass.
Why is it that even the sworded grass drew hastily from dewy hill
And turned its flexing blade on me?
I cannot break this stony silence spilled on everything.
The air is icy chill. God, can move but I
Hear that wild minor music rolling down the evil sky!

—Vesta Emanuel.