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Gangelin, Paul; Dummer, Frances; Commons, Rachel (ed.) / The Wisconsin literary magazine
Volume XX, Number 5 (February 1921)

Gregory, Horace V.
An hour,   p. 114


Page 114


February, 192t
WISCONSIN LITERARY MAGAZINE
is doing everything that it can to give the student what
he is looking for, yet it is possible to "get by" with-
out much effort, and with the manifold temptations to
idleness which college life presents, relatively few put
enough into their work to get something out of it.
The tone of the whole body of students is too likely
to be one that will encourage just "getting by."
There is a remedy-a harsh remedy-namely,
"applying the screws" more than they have been ap-
plied. A degree loses its value in the eyes of the
man who has worked for it when he sees his neighbor
who has not worked for it get one that is just as good.
Students who demonstrate that they are not working
should be made to work or they should be ruthlessly
expelled. If we allow them to linger on one pre-
text or another they will lower the whole standing of
the University.
That is a rash doctrine to preach, especially so
soon after the examinations, but its application would
result in benefit to the University and little harm to
those who must suffer because of rigorous regulations.
There are at present too many instances of "getting
by", the result of nothing worse than tender-hearted-
ness and consideration on the part of the authorities.
Should the standards be raised, after due warning, it
would doubtless be surprising to see how many who
once "got by" would suddenly discover in themselves
the genius of hard work.               P. V. GC
EDITORS
PAUL GANGELIN        EARL HANSON
FRANCES DUMMER       HORACE GREGORY
RACHEL COMMONS       DOROTHY SHANER
ART EDITOR-GRACE GLEERuP
AN HOUR
HORACE V. GREGORY
Our love is not immortal; it will die
Before the sun has found the sleeping dawn,
Before the stars have closed their eyes and gone
In blindness where the Gods of Midnight lie,
Silent and languorous, on heavens high
Above our waking world, their curtains drawn,
Curtains of mist, like dew upon the lawn
That's swept to nothingness when wind blows by.
Our love is not immortal; like a flower,
Its fragrance rising in a liquid tower,
Whose fragile beauty cannot fall too soon,
Whose very weakness is its greatest power
Over our hearts. Look up, Dear, there's the moon
Grown pale with weariness. We've spent the hour.


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