Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A TEACHER, by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON Poet's Biography First Line: Go praise the hero, ye who may Last Line: Ye childless mothers of the race! Subject(s): Teaching & Teachers; Educators; Professors | ||||||||
Go praise the Hero, ye who may: I sing the Teacher, -- one for whom The morrow was but more to-day, -- Whose fainting labor showed the way To pluck one's gladness from his doom. The leisure others gave to joy She gave to toil: to fill the day With wine of wisdom her employ. She, once as merry as a boy, Had long forgotten how to play. I see her when the scurrying band Have left her, weary and alone, Her pale cheek pillowed on her hand, Watching the wistful evening land Without repining, tear, or moan. Mayhap her spirit, never sad, (Ah, what a challenge memory stirs!) Demanded why grim fate forbade Her motherhood, who gave each lad The love she might have given hers. She dwelt within a lifelong dream Of seeing lands of far romance, -- Of loitering by Arno's stream, Of catching Athens' sunset gleam That can alone its fame enhance. Still, an uncloistered nun she went, With naught more fretful than a sigh, And in her happy task she spent Her sweetness, like some rose's scent In sacred treasury laid by. Her pure devotion did not gauge Her service by her daily need; And not her scanty, grudging wage, Nor spectre of forsaken Age, Could take the beauty from her creed. She faced her calling as it stood -- Incessant, onerous, obscure; Content if she but sometime could Be silent partner with the Good, Whose victory was to her so sure. She knew that all who reach the height The path of sympathy have trod; And pondered, many a wakeful night, How she could aid with gentle might The unseen miracles of God. What though she might not wait the fruit? What though she went before the flower? She gave the timbre to the lute, And in the voice that else were mute Divined the rare, supernal power. Of all she lent her strength, a few Shall wear her name as amulet. How many more who struggle through, Remembering not to whom 't is due, Shall still keep memory of the debt! . . . Oh, could we know of life the whole Hid record, what an envied place Were yours upon the honor scroll, Ye faithful sentries of the soul, Ye childless mothers of the race! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CORRESPONDENCE-SCHOOL INSTRUCTOR SAYS GOODBYE TO HIS POETRY STUDENTS by GALWAY KINNELL GRATITUDE TO OLD TEACHERS by ROBERT BLY TWO RAMAGES FOR OLD MASTERS by ROBERT BLY ON FLUNKING A NICE BOY OUT OF SCHOOL by JOHN CIARDI HER MONOLOGUE OF DARK CREPE WITH EDGES OF LIGHT by NORMAN DUBIE OF POLITICS, & ART by NORMAN DUBIE SEVERAL MEASURES FOR THE LITTLE LOST by NORMAN DUBIE AN ENGLISH MOTHER by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON |
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