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Poems About School

Table of Contents

  1. In School by Annette Wynne
  2. Fossils by Amos Russel Wells
  3. The Time to Get Ready by Amos Russel Wells
  4. A Pointed Discussion by Anonymous
  5. Persevere by Anonymous
  6. Little by Little by Anonymous
  7. The Parts of Speech by Anonymous
  8. Song of the School Bell by John Edward Everett
  9. School-Time by Anonymous
  10. The Little New Pupil by Annette Wynne
  11. Land of School by Annette Wynne
  12. After Vacation by Annette Wynne
  13. The Country Schoolhouse by Edwin L. Sabin
  14. Snow in Schooltime by Annette Wynne
  15. Yesterday the School Was Red by Annette Wynne
  16. The Old Schoolhouse by Ellwood Roberts
  17. The Old Stone School House by Ed. Blair
  18. The Building of the School-House by Mattie Baker Dunn
  19. At School by John Boyle O'Reilly

  1. In School

    by Annette Wynne

    In school, children sit in rows,
    Just the way the green corn grows,
    They should be glad they needn't stay
    In rows as corn does night and day.
    For it is fun to play and shout
    And run quite far when school is out.

  2. Fossils

    by Amos Russel Wells

    The time was Carboniferous,
    The place was by the share.
    Some molecules vociferous
    Of Fe SO4
    Induced a little conifer
    To take them in her stem,
    Letting go the blood and bone of her
    And making room for them
    Until the plant ridiculous
    Was a fossil nothing more
    All because of that iniquitous
    Shrewd Fe SO4

    'Twas the time of Homo Sapiens,
    The place,--a library
    Some dusty tomes of weight lmmense
    By subtle sorcery
    Induced a great philosopher
    To take them in his brain,
    Rejecting, you of course infer,
    Its former contents vain,
    Until the sage rapacious
    Became, one summer day,
    A leather-backed veracious,

  3. The Time to Get Ready

    by Amos Russel Wells

    "Jockey, little horse-jockey, riding to the race,
    Jaunty is your bearing, confident your face,
    Beautiful your goodly steed so powerful and fleet--
    But what, my little jockey is the matter with his feet?"

    "The shoes are loose, kind stranger. "Their click it is you hear.
    But I myself will fasten them securely, never fear,
    Since I have brought my tools along, to tighten every shoe;
    For while the horse is racing, I'll have nothing else to do!"

    "Jaunty little horse-jockey, with your silly plan,
    You are not more foolish than many a foolish man--
    Up into the saddle, off for the race of life.
    Expecting to get ready in the middle of the strife."

  4. A Pointed Discussion

    by Anonymous

    The Punctuation Points one day,
    In the type case where they lay,
    Each an earnest pleading pressed
    To be ruler of the rest.

    Said the Period, "I'm the end
    Toward which every line is penned."

    Cried the Comma, "Nay, but me
    Printers use most frequently."

    Bragged the Hyphen, "Lo! I stand
    With a word in either hand."

    Screamed the Exclamation, "Fie!
    All the writers' force am I."

    Urged the Question Mark in glee,
    "Don't men always ask for me?"

    Cried the Colon, "Printers call
    Me to introduce you all."

    Semicolon: "Mine the art
    To hold differing thoughts apart."

    But the Dash triumphantly
    Drove the others to the wall.
    "I'm the only Point," said he,
    "That the Authors use at all!"

  5. Persevere

    by Anonymous

    The fisher who draws in his net too soon,
    Won't have any fish to sell;
    The child who shuts up his book too soon,
    Won't learn any lessons well.

    If you would have your learning stay,
    Be patient,—stick with it and hold fast:
    The man who travels a mile each day,
    May get 'round the world at last.

  6. Little by Little

    by Anonymous

    “Little by little,” an acorn said,
    As it slowly sank in its mossy bed,
    “I am improving every day,
    Hidden deep in the earth away.”

    Little by little, each day it grew;
    Little by little, it sipped the dew;
    Downward it sent out a thread-like root;
    Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot.

    Day after day, and year after year,
    Little by little the leaves appear;
    And the slender branches spread far and wide,
    Till the mighty oak is the forest’s pride.

    Far down in the depths of the dark blue sea,
    An insect train work ceaselessly.
    Grain by grain, they are building well,
    Each one alone in its little cell.

    Moment by moment, and day by day,
    Never stopping to rest or to play,
    Rocks upon rocks, they are rearing high,
    Till the top looks out on the sunny sky.

    The gentle wind and the balmy air,
    Little by little, bring verdure there;
    Till the summer sunbeams gayly smile
    On the buds and the flowers of the coral isle.

    “Little by little,” said a thoughtful boy,
    “Moment by moment, I’ll well employ,
    Learning a little every day,
    And not spending all my time in play.
    And still this rule in my mind shall dwell,
    Whatever I do, I will do it well.

    “Little by little, I’ll learn to know
    The treasured wisdom of long ago;
    And one of these days, perhaps, we’ll see
    That the world will be the better for me.”
    And do you not think that this simple plan
    Made him a wise and useful man?

  7. The Parts of Speech

    by Anonymous

    Three little words you often see
    Are articles a, an, and the.
    A noun's the name of anything,
    As house or garden, hoop or swing.
    Instead of nouns the pronouns stand—
    Her head, your face, his arm, my hand.
    Adjectives tell the kind of noun,
    As great, small, pretty, white or brown.
    Verbs tell something to be done—
    To read, count, sing, laugh or run.
    How things are done the adverbs tell,
    As slowly, quickly, ill or well.
    Conjunctions join the words together,
    As men and women, wind or weather.
    The preposition stands before
    A noun, as in or through a door.
    The interjection shows surprise,
    As oh! how pretty, ah! how wise.
    The whole are called nine parts of speech,
    Which reading, writing, speaking teach.

  8. Song of the School Bell

    by John Edward Everett

    Kind neighbors, you and I are friends.
    And toiling for the selfsame ends,
    To help the children wiser grow,
    And teach them what they ought to know.

    Day after day, the winter through,
    I guard your sons and daughters true.
    Each day at nine I say, "hello",
    To the youthful world of joy and woe.
    Each day at nine are loudly sung
    Clear greetings from my iron tongue,
    While children rush with romp and race,
    As though to meet my fond embrace.
    Then through the hours they ply the mind
    To see what knowledge they may find—
    Sometimes with smile and radiant eye,
    Sometimes with frown and inward sigh.
    'Tis now with bright, now downcast, looks
    They bend their heads above their books.

    Kind neighbors, you and I are friends.
    And toiling for the selfsame ends,—
    To help the children wiser grow,
    And teach them what they ought to know.

  9. School-Time

    by Anonymous

    School time.
    Children dear,
    Hasten here,
    When the lesson-time is near;
    Hurry fast,
    Don’t be last;
    Minutes now are flying fast.

  10. The Little New Pupil

    by Annette Wynne

    Brand new pupil came to school,
    His eyes—how quick and bright!—
    I wonder, will he learn each rule—
    And learn to read and write?

    I hope he'll always wipe his feet
    On coming up the stair,
    And keep his face and garments neat,
    And brush his teeth and hair.

    A brand new pupil came to school,
    I fear he came to play—
    I fear he'll never keep the rule—
    He's but a kitten gray.

  11. Land of School

    by Annette Wynne

    The Land of School has desks and books,
    But has no fences, hills, and brooks;
    The children live there every day
    Even when they'd rather play;
    But the teacher, quite content,
    Is the king or president.

  12. After Vacation

    by Annette Wynne

    The first day at school is the very best one,
    If all days were first days then school would be fun.

  13. The Country Schoolhouse

    by Edwin L. Sabin

    The little country schoolhouse—you
    Remember it; of course you do!
    Within the angle snugly set,
    Where two long yellow highways met,
    And saplings planted here and there
    About the yard, and boxed with care
    As if to typify, in turn,
    The youngsters caught and caged, to learn.

    Around, the rolling pastures spread,
    With woodland patches garlanded,
    From which the breezes gladly bore
    Sly invitations to the door.
    Across the sills the bees' soft hum
    Was mingled with the muttered sum,
    And from their covert in the vale
    In plaintive pleading piped the quail.

    With basket and with pail equipped,
    Clear-eyed, tan-cheeked and berry-lipped,
    Athwart the pastures, down the road,
    They trudged to learning's poor abode;
    The pink sunbonnet, broad-brimmed straw;
    The bare brown feet that knew no law
    Of fashion's last; the bundled forms
    That laughed aloud at cold and storms.

    What tales the scarred desks might relate
    Of triumphs gained with book and slate!
    What lore the clapboards loose possess
    Of feats at noontime and recess!
    And doomed how oft the panes to see,
    Back up the road, and o'er the lea,
    Haste boy and girl, new worlds to find,
    The little schoolhouse left behind.

    O little country school! In vain
    May critics hold you in disdain.
    The greatest lessons that you taught
    Were not by chalk and pencil wrought.
    As oped your door on fields and sky,
    So, likewise just as wide and high,
    You opened to the eyes of youth
    The principles of love and truth.

  14. Snow in Schooltime

    by Annette Wynne

    All Saturday the sky was clear,
    But now again that Monday's here
    It snows; and through the window glass
    We see the flying snowflakes pass.

    The teacher never seems to know
    The fun it is to have the snow;
    She thinks that we can sit and think,
    And write long words with pen and ink,

    And listen well to three times three,
    And be as quiet as can be,
    And never once peep out around
    To see how much stays on the ground.

  15. Yesterday the School Was Red

    by Annette Wynne

    Yesterday the school was red,
    But now it's dressed in white;
    The fences are the same;—all night
    The Snow King worked while we were fast asleep in bed.
    He said, "I'll make the world below
    So white and new, the children will not know
    Just where the schoolhouse is, or find the way
    To go, and they will stay outside and play."
    And yet we found the way—he could not hide
    The posts that stuck up straight beside
    The road. But never mind, when school is done
    We'll make a Snow King in the yard and have the greatest fun.

  16. The Old Schoolhouse

    by Ellwood Roberts

    Amid the trials of the changeful Present,
    The hghts and shadows that around us play,
    A retrospective glance is often pleasant,
    Along life's way.

    In fancy once again youth's sunlight golden
    We feel; we tread the old delightful ways
    We've trodden oft, while on the landscape olden
    We fondly gaze.

    So down the well-remembered path I wander,
    Each step with some bright recollection fraught:
    And all the changes, as I go, I ponder,
    That Time has wrought.

    I reach the bridge and cross the sunny meadow,
    Ascend the slope, and, just beside the door,
    The lofty chestnuts see; now in their shadow
    I stand, once more.

    I enter, and behold, around, before me,
    Each once familiar object, as of old;
    And, for a moment, I forget that o'er me
    Swift years have rolled.

    A boy again, I strive to change the places
    Of Past and Present; for a moment seem
    To live again amid the dear old faces,
    As in a dream.

    Life's troubles, changes, toils, seem but a vision,
    As, sitting in the old, accustomed place,
    Upon the world beyond, the fields Elysian,
    I turn my face.

    How different reality from seeming,
    Since I have tasted what life had to give;
    Can I have been for all these long years dreaming?
    Or, did I live?

    The same, and yet how changed, the scene before me!
    The comrades of my youth have passed away;
    I find myself—the thought comes stealing o'er me—
    Alone, to-day.

    How few old friends survive the thousand changes
    Of half a lifetime! Thirty years have passed;
    The mind down Time's long vista, busy ranges,
    With grief o'ercast.

    The dear old friends have gone and left me lonely;
    Teachers and schoolmates—all have passed away;
    Of most a recollection lingers only;
    Oh, where are they?

    Alone! and all the eager aspiration
    I felt in bygone years, is mine no more;
    I turn away in silent meditation.
    And leave the door.

    I go my way, to present time returning,
    While sunset's fitful shadows hover near;
    Within my heart the thought—I have been learning
    A lesson here.

    We cannot feel again the sunlight golden,
    Although we tread the well-remembered ways;
    We may not live again the moments olden
    In later days.

  17. The Old Stone School House

    by Ed. Blair

    I've seen once more the school house grounds
    Where oft I spent sweet days,
    Of mirth and joy and pleasure rare,
    In childhood's pleasant ways,
    I've stood upon the ground where then
    The children used to play,
    It still seemed that I ought to hear
    Those voices passed away.

    The playground seems not half so large,
    The lane not half so wide,
    The dear old walls so small, how could
    So many get inside?
    And dirt and stones now fill the well
    That furnished water sweet,
    And climbing vines have woven there
    The song-birds' safe retreat.

    The dear old house no longer stands,
    It burned long years ago,
    And all that's left are crumbling walls
    That time is sinking low,
    Oh, ruins! how like youthful hopes,
    When time has fl.own and left
    Declining years, with scattered friends,
    And darling ones bereft.

    The wild flower blooms there as of old,
    But ah! how sad to me,
    No barefoot boys or girls were there,
    There loveliness to see.
    No races for the soapstone bank
    For finger rings we wore,
    And pencils that we neatly cut
    Like those bou ght from the store.

    Those barefoot boys and girls are now
    All men and women grown,
    And scattered far, yes very far,
    From the dear old house of stone,
    And as I stood and gazed I seemed
    To call them back once more,
    And hear their shouts of laughter ring
    As in the days of yore.

  18. The Building of the School-House

    by Mattie Baker Dunn

    "What shall we do for the children?"
    The question had pressed us long―
    At morning and noon they gathered,
    A merry and fair-faced throng;
    From the happy homes of plenty,
    From the dwellings of the poor,
    Bright-eyed, intent and eager,
    "They thronged the school-room door,
    And the walls grew strait to hold them
    Till we asked, with anxious frown:
    "What shall we do for the children,
    The promise and flower of the town?"

    So we said to the master-builder:
    "O craftsman, apt and skilled!
    Our town, with thought for the future,
    Hath in its wisdom willed
    That you shall build for the children
    A mansion spacious and tall;
    Four-square like the heavenly city;
    With stair and turret and hall,
    With windows looking skyward,
    North, south, and east and west,
    Build firm and strong, O master!
    O workmen build your best!
    Build for the bright-faced children
    That smile in your eyes to-day―
    Build for the unborn children,
    In years that are far away!

    "Out of the solemn quarries
    Where Nature, never at rest,
    Shapeth the mighty granite
    Hid in the green earth's breast;
    Where sun and rain, and fusion
    Of elemental fire,
    Work miracles forever
    At her supreme desire,
    Cut from the solid boulders
    The firm foundation stone,
    The house on a rock that is builded
    Shall ne'er be overthrown.

    "Where ranks of stately pine-trees
    In earth's primeval lands,
    Toward the lonely mountain
    Stretch out their waving hands;
    Hew down the forest-monarchs,
    For the fertile earth below
    Hath yielded richest juices
    Within their veins to flow.
    The lonely lakes shall speed us,
    The mountain torrents still
    Shall aid us with their currents,
    The rivers work our will,
    Till the huge trunks dismantled,
    In timbers great and small,
    Shall shape our beams and rafters,
    Shall fashion stair and hall.

    "With brick from smoking brickyard,
    With iron from the mines,
    The walls shall spring by magic
    In straight and shapely lines;
    With sound of hammer and chisel,
    With workmen s cheerful cries,
    The house we build for the children
    In beauty shall arise,
    With here an arching doorway,
    And here a turret tower,
    We see the thought that shaped it
    Grow in it every hour,
    Till looking northward ever
    We set the carven face
    Of him, the mightiest master
    In all the human race.
    O keen, calm eyes of Shakespeare!
    Not ancient Stratford town,
    But our fair, new-world city
    Beholds you looking down;
    Those dumb lips say: Remember!
    The teeming, restless brain
    Is still the potent factor
    For human joy or pain;
    And you who would mould and shape it,
    Make for eternity
    An impress like the circles
    That widen on the sea!"

    Finished at last―our school-house―
    The workman's hammers dumb,
    And bare of memories it stands,
    Its story all to come.
    Yet we to-night who view it,
    In structure now complete,
    Hear through the years the echoes
    Of all the coming feet;
    For vainly mister builded,
    And vainly workman wrought,
    If we build not in human lives,
    And shipa in humin thought;
    And vainly hath the mason
    Laid the foundation stone,
    If we our superstructure rear
    Of brick and wood alone.
    Unless when mister's brain is dust,
    And workmen's tools at rest,
    When skill that planned, and hand that wrought
    To silence are addressed,
    The future shall by wisest zeal
    And nobler impulse tell,
    In tones tint sound across the years:
    "Behold, you builded well!"

  19. At School

    by John Boyle O'Reilly

    The bees are in the meadow,
    And the swallows in the sky;
    The cattle in the shadow
    Watch the river running by.
    The wheat is hardly stirring;
    The heavy ox-team lags;
    The dragon-fly is whirring
    Through the yellow-blossomed flags.

    And down beside the river,
    Where the trees lean o’er the pool,
    Where the shadows reach and quiver,
    A boy has come to school.
    His teachers are the swallows
    And the river and the trees;
    His lessons are the shallows
    And the flowers and the bees.

    He sees the fly-wave on the stream,
    The otter steal along,
    The red-gilled, slow, deep-sided bream,
    He knows the mating-song.
    The chirping green-fly on the grass
    Accepts his comrade meet;
    The small gray rabbits fearless pass;
    The birds light at his feet.

    He knows not he is learning;
    He thinks nor writes a word;
    But in the soul discerning
    A living spring is stirred.

    In after years—O, weary years!
    The river’s lesson, he
    Will try to speak to heedless ears
    In faltering minstrelsy!

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