The Old Schoolhouse

It's years since a scholar climbed the hill

But the yellow schoolhouse stands there still

In its sunny clearing set between

Rocky pasture and spruce woods green.

On creaking hinges the door swings wide

For any passer to peer inside,

Where the rows of desks and chairs stretch brown,

And poets with beards look kindly down

From the walls they share with maps hung thick,

And a clock that's forgotten how to tick

In all the years since school let out,

And the last child ran with whoop and shout

Into the still, bright afternoon

Of such another day in June.