And ragged beggar sleeping;
Around it still the sumacs grow,
And blackberry vines are creeping.
Within, the master’s desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife’s carved initials.
The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
It’s door’s worn still, 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 eave’s 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 are 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
O right and left, he lingered;
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
Her soft hand’s light caressing
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a default 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.
Copy write by: John Greenleaf Whittier
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