Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. You can also use the up (↑) and down (↓) arrows to move a line one place at a time, or the top (⇑) and bottom (⇓) arrows to move a line directly to the top or bottom. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
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And blackberry vines are running.
For near her stood the little boy
Of one who still her steps delayed
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
Where pride and shame were mingled.
Still sits the school-house by the road,
Its door's worn sill, betraying
It touched the tangled golden curls,
I'm sorry that I spelt the word:
Her childish favor singled:
Like her,—because they love him.
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Have forty years been growing!
The blue-checked apron fingered.
As restlessly her tiny hands
Around it still the sumachs grow,
Lament their triumph and his loss,
To right and left, he lingered;—
How few who pass above him
The soft hand's light caressing,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Long years ago a winter sun
His cap pulled low upon a face
And brown eyes full of grieving,
I hate to go above you,
Because,"—the brown eyes lower fell,—
Still memory to a gray-haired man
Dear girl: the grasses on her grave
Because, you see, I love you!
Went storming out to playing!
The jack-knife's carved initial;
Pushing with restless feet the snow
The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
As if a fault confessing.
Lit up its western window-panes,
Deep scarred by raps official;
Within, the master's desk is seen,
And low eaves' icy fretting.
And heard the tremble of her voice,
The warping floor, the battered seats,
When all the school were leaving.
Shone over it at setting;
He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
That sweet child-face is showing.
🎉 Congratulations! 🎉
You've successfully reconstructed the poem! Your understanding of poetry and attention to detail is impressive.
Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry vines are running.
Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial;
The charcoal frescoes on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing!
Long 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 eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving.
For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled: His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled.
Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered;— As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered.
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing.
"I'm sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you, Because,"—the brown eyes lower fell,— "Because, you see, I love you!"
Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl: the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing!
He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her,—because they love him.