| |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| 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,— | 35 |
| “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! | 40 |
| |
| 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. | |
| |
