Eighty Pound Bond
What are you
Roslyn High?
I gaze at you
From the street
As you rise above me
A brick and mortar thing
Strong against the bulge
Of  Harbor Hill
You are more than a building ‑‑‑
That, I know.
Some say you are just Roslyn,
 Yet, I do not,
 For a name in itself has no meaning.
Four years have I passed with you
And I am soon to be gone.
Of me, dear Alma Mater,
Write in life's diary . . .
Scuffing along the halls
Against the jam of shoving students,
The clasping, warm handshake
Of friendly, open hands . . .
The silence of fans in bleachers
Ever fervent to the humbling end.
The throbbing pulsebeat
And the hopes and hidden tears ---
The blinding of a million dreams.
Write of me . . .
Of elections, plays and proms,
The old songs, and the music
That I carry in my heart.
When I creep along my way
With a trillion different fears,
The peace, the noise, the motion,
And a thousand people's talk,
Then of me, dear Alma Mater
Write in life's diary,
What all of this meant ---
Roslyn High.
But above all, in triplicate,
On eighty‑pound bond,
Write, You are to me
What I have made you.
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