Still sits the school-house by the road,

A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow,

And blackberry vines are running.

Within the master's desk is seen,

Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats.

The jack-knife's carved initial.

Long years ago, one winter's sun

Shone over it at setting; Lit up the western window pane,

And low eaves icy fretting.

It shone upon the tangled curls,

And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed,

While all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy

Her childish favor singled; His cap was pulled low on his brow,

Where pride and shame were mingled.

With restless foot he pushed the snow To right and left; he lingered;

As restlessly her tiny hands The blue checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes,

He felt the soft hand's light caressing, He heard the trembling of her voice,

As if a fault 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 o'er 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 she loves him.

Let fate do her worst! there are relics of joy,

Bright dreams of a past, which she cannot destroy;

Which came in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear.

Long be my heart with such memories filled,

Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled;

You may break, you may shatter that vase, if you will,

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still!