Classic Poem

Hours of a slow, hot afternoon,
So far away, vibrating still,
When eyes would watch upon the sill
A sparrow heedless of the school.

Hours of the book and furtive play,
Pinches passed on, and then the cane,
And sobbing or a cheek's proud flame,
Hours living still, yet far away.

Yet far away, — the teacher? He
Only a dim remembrance, but
The ink-stained desk with ruts and cut
With many initials I can see.

Hours packed with heat and silence, — oh!
The bark more rugged and the tree
More coarse have yet their melody, —
Hours of my schooldays, hours of long ago.