TO AN OLD SCHOOLHOUSE

Down by the end of the lane it stands,

Where the sumac grows in a crimson thatch,

Down where the sweet wild berry patch,

Holds out a lure for eager hands.

Down at the end of the lane, who knows

The ghosts that sit at the well-scarred seats,

When the moon is dark, and the gray sky meets

With the dawn time light, and a chill wind blows?

Ghosts — well not ghosts, perhaps, but dreams —

Rather like wistful shades, that stand

Waiting a look or an outstretched hand,

To call them back where the morning gleams —

Dreams of the hopes we had, that died,

Dreams of the vivid youth we sold;

Dreams of a pot of rainbow gold —

Gold that we sought for, eager-eyed!

Dreams of the plans we made, that sleep

With the lesson books on the dusty rack,

Of the joyous years that will not come back —

That are drowned in the tears we have learned to weep.

Ghosts did I call them! Sweet they are

As a plant that grows in a desert place,

Sweet as a dear remembered face —

Sweet as a pale, courageous star.