AC (12-16-1981 DOD: everyday / )


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.

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Comments (1)

This is quite beautiful. Funny how the wind is often overlooked except to the one who stops to breathe it in deeply and take the time to notice it's temperature on one's cheek. Just thought I'd share that with you... adria