Classic Poem

As the poor schoolboy, when the slow-paced months
Have brought vacation times, and one by one
His playmates and companions all are fled
Or ready; and to him—to him alone
No summons comes; he left of all the train
Paces with lingering step the vacant halls,
No longer murmuring with the Muse's song,
And silent play-ground scattered wide around
With implements of sports, resounding once
With cheerful shouts; and hears no sound of wheels
To bear him to his father's bosom home;
For, conscious though he be of time misspent,
And heedless faults and much amiss, yet hopes
A father's pardon and a father's smile
Blessing his glad return……Thus I
Look to the hour when I shall follow those
That are at rest before me.