The Old Schoolhouse

A week and a half ago my family returned to the southern state that was our original home. We went there to take my mother's ashes for burial. Driving around the little village, we saw things that had changed over the passage of many years, but the essence of the place was still there and it still spoke to me very strongly. The old schoolhouse was crumbling and covered with vines. The photo is of the gymnasium where I used to enjoy shooting baskets (even though the school was closed by the time that I was old enough to do that - 50 years ago). Seeing the school, I was reminded of a poem that I used to love. At one time, I knew the poem by heart; certain verses still remain with me.

In School-days
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Still sits the schoolhouse 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 jackknife'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 windowpanes,

And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,

And brown eyes full of grieving,

Of one who still her steps delay

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 carressing,

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.