Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL, by CHARLES LOUIS HENRY WAGNER First Line: With the golden moonlight streaming Last Line: In that dear old village school. Subject(s): Children; Classmates; Memory; Schools; Childhood; Schoolmates; Students | ||||||||
With the golden moonlight streaming Through my window open wide, I am all alone and dreaming, And the past years seem to glide Phantom-like before my vision, Each and every one in turn, Not a break nor an omission, And for them my heart doth yearn. Childhood's happy hours renewing, 'Neath the moon's soft, mystic spell, And my memory's reviewing Boyhood days I loved so well. Days in which no thought of sorrow Marred the joy which childhood knew, When each glorious tomorrow Opened a new world to view. I can see a boy whose features Much resemble those of mine, Which, like other earth-born creatures, Many traits seem to combine. I can see him as he trudges To that dear old village school; I can see his skirted judges Place him on a dunce's stool. As I watch him mounting slowly, Step by step and grade to grade, I recall that great and lowly Each the first same steps have made. And each hope and aspiration Which I own, came first to me Through my teachers' inculcation And their kindly amity. I can hear the noisy prattle Of his schoolmates when at play; But to-day they're doing battle With the world as best they may. Some have gone to study under Heavenly teachers of God's truth, And tonight I can't but wonder If they still retain their youth. I remember, oh! so clearly, Bright blue eyes and golden hair, One boy's sweetheart, loved so dearly, Who is now with angels there. Winsome smiles and blushes beaming On a bashful boy of twelve, And the tears fall while I'm dreaming Of the past in which I delve. I can see a wreath of flowers Resting lightly on a chair Close beside him, where for hours Sat this little maiden fair. I can hear the subdued sobbing Of a boy who'd lost a friend, And tonight my heart is throbbing With the memories that attend. And I wonder when the ringing School bell calls me to that shore, Where are white-robed choirs singing, I shall know her as of yore. Will she be the same as childhood Memories reveal her now, Romping through the field and wildwood, Purity stamped on her brow? Or, have girlhood's blossoms parted To reveal a woman's soul, Still endeavoring as it started Towards a grand and lofty goal? Was the thread of life here broken Bound by God into Hope's strand, Which should serve to us as token Of that better promised land? From the schoolroom window gazing I can see a grassy hill, Where the cattle now are grazing, There the world seems calm and still. Once again I view the river Flowing sluggishly along, Where the willow branches quiver, Where I hear the robin's song. I can see a kind face beaming Full of happiness and joy, And two sharp, bright eyes are gleaming, Focused on a naughty boy. They were owned by dear "Aunt Hannah," As we used to call her then, Whose sweet, gentle, loving manner Will ne'er be forgot by men. I remember quite distinctly How she used to punish boys, How she often used to chide me For my whispering and noise. I was always quite loquacious (Even now it's not outgrown), And I think her efficacious Punishment I will make known. Every night as we were leaving She commanded those to stay Who deserved no kind reprieving, Those who'd whispered through the day, While she kept them busy learning Poetry of every kind, Who, before their homeward turning, Verses five must have in mind. So I think my love of rhyming Must have been augmented quite By the constant, measured timing Of those poems every night. Dear Aunt Hannah's now up yonder, And I think that I can see Good Saint Peter sit and ponder Over classic poetry. I can see a figure stately Standing by the schoolroom door, And I watch it move sedately To the platform on the floor. 'Twas my dearly loved schoolmaster, Who impressed me as a child With a knowledge that was vaster Than old Homer e'er compiled. And tonight the moonlight streaming Seems to cast his silhouette On my mind as I am dreaming, And his pose I'll ne'er forget; One hand pointed to the ceiling. With his form erect and grand As he was to us revealing Oratory's master-hand. I can hear the windows rattle From his deep and lusty tone, As with Spartacus in battle Making his fierce feelings known. And the Storm King's mighty thunder Seemed not half as loud to me As that voice which we sat under Learning vocal purity. And whene'er I have occasion To address my fellow men, I remember his oration, And old Spartacus again. And I try to put real fire Into everything I say, Such as he aimed to inspire In his pupils every day. The old master still is living, Very gray and somewhat bent, And I know at times he's giving To this burning fire vent. And with truth I can assever That the knowledge which he taught Will inspire me forever Towards the goal my soul has sought. And the schoolhouse still is standing Just a little from the street, Where upon each step and landing One can hear the children's feet. But the charm for me is broken, As I'm dreaming here alone, Since each sweet and loving token Of my past there now has flown. Still, I love that quaint, old building, And the golden moonbeams bright Seem to flood its porches, gilding Every corner with delight. And I'll ne'er forget the teachings, Ne'er forget that dunce's stool, Nor my kind, old master's preachings In that dear old village school. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN MICHAEL ROBINS?ÇÖS CLASS MINUS ONE by HICOK. BOB YOU GO TO SCHOOL TO LEARN by THOMAS LUX GRADESCHOOL'S LARGE WINDOWS by THOMAS LUX A DROP OF INK by CHARLES LOUIS HENRY WAGNER |
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