GEORGE LEONARD ALLEN
Reading edition
I was born in Lumberton, North Carolina, September 10, 1905. My parents, Professor and Mrs. D. P. Allen, were then in charge of Whitin Normal School, a thriving secondary school which was discontinued at my father’s death some ten years ago.
My high school days were spent at Redstone Academy, located at Lumberton. I can think of nothing of interest to mention concerning this period, except that I was an omnivorous reader, and learned to love literature, and especially poetry, with a passionate intensity.
Four years of college at Johnson C. Smith University followed, during which time I studied a little, read a great deal, and dabbled in music and literature. Among other things, I experimented with the piano enough to become a fairly advanced performer.
It was during my stay at college that my longing to become a writer grew particularly ardent. A good many of my literary attempts saw the light in school and local periodicals, some bringing encouraging comment. In June of 1926, I was graduated, having been chosen as valedictorian for that year.
I feel it necessary to mention here that my college career was made possible mainly through the sacrifices of my noble and devoted mother.
In the past winter I was engaged in teaching at Kendall Institute in Sumter, S. C. During this time some of my work appeared in Opportunity, American Life, The Southwestern Christian Advocate, and The Lyric West.
This year one of my poems, “To Melody,” was awarded the prize for the best sonnet in a state-wide contest conducted by the United Daughters of the Confederacy (North Carolina Division).
TO MELODY
I think that man hath made no beauteous thing More lovely than a glorious melody That soars aloft in splendor, full and free, And graceful as a swallow on the wing! A melody that seems to move, and sing, And quiver, in its radiant ecstasy, That bends and rises like a slender tree Which sways before the gentle winds of Spring! Ah, men will ever love thee, holy art! For thou, of all the blessings God hath given, Canst best revive and cheer the wounded heart And nearest bring the weary soul to Heaven! Of all God’s precious gifts, it seems to me, The choicest is the gift of melody.
PORTRAIT
Her eyes? Dark pools of deepest shade, Like sylvan lakes that lie In some sequestered forest glade Beneath a starry sky. Her cheeks? The ripened chestnut’s hue,— Rich autumn’s sun-kissed brown! Caressed by sunbeams dancing through Red leaves that flutter down. Her form? A slender pine that sways Before the murmuring breeze In summer, when the south wind plays Soft music through the trees. Herself? A laughing, joyous sprite Who smiles from dawn till dark, As lovely as a summer night And carefree as a lark.