In School-Days
John Greenleaf Whittier
1807 to 1892
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Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry are running.
Within, the master's desk is seen,
scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;
The charcoal frescoes on wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!
years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting.
It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps
When all the school were leaving.
For near stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled:
His pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame mingled.
Pushing with restless feet the snow
To and left, he lingered;—
As restlessly her tiny
The blue-checked apron fingered.
He saw her lift eyes; he felt
The soft hand's light caressing,
And the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.
"I'm sorry that I spelt the word:
I to go above you,
Because,"—the brown eyes lower fell,—
"Because, you see, I love you!"
memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl: the grasses on her grave
Have forty been growing!
He lives to learn, in life's school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their and his loss,
Like her,—because they love him.