C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
In School Days
By John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)
S
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry vines are running.
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife’s carved initial;
Its door’s worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves’ icy fretting.
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.
Her childish favor singled;
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.
To right and left, he lingered;
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.
The soft hand’s light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.
I hate to go above you,
Because”—the brown eyes lower fell—
“Because, you see, I love you!”
That sweet child-face is showing:
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her—because they love him.