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Best Famous School Days Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous School Days poems. This is a select list of the best famous School Days poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous School Days poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of school days poems.

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Written by Delmore Schwartz | Create an image from this poem

Calmly We Walk Through This Aprils Day

 Calmly we walk through this April's day,
Metropolitan poetry here and there,
In the park sit pauper and rentier,
The screaming children, the motor-car
Fugitive about us, running away,
Between the worker and the millionaire
Number provides all distances,
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,
Many great dears are taken away,
What will become of you and me
(This is the school in which we learn.
) Besides the photo and the memory? (.
that time is the fire in which we burn.
) (This is the school in which we learn.
) What is the self amid this blaze? What am I now that I was then Which I shall suffer and act again, The theodicy I wrote in my high school days Restored all life from infancy, The children shouting are bright as they run (This is the school in which they learn .
) Ravished entirely in their passing play! (.
that time is the fire in which they burn.
) Avid its rush, that reeling blaze! Where is my father and Eleanor? Not where are they now, dead seven years, But what they were then? No more? No more? From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day, Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume Not where they are now (where are they now?) But what they were then, both beautiful; Each minute bursts in the burning room, The great globe reels in the solar fire, Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!) What am I now that I was then? May memory restore again and again The smallest color of the smallest day: Time is the school in which we learn, Time is the fire in which we burn.

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Elizabeth Childers

 Dust of my dust, 
And dust with my dust, 
O, child who died as you entered the world, 
Dead with my death! 
Not knowing breath, though you tried so hard, 
With a heart that beat when you lived with me, 
And stopped when you left me for Life.
It is well, my child.
For you never traveled The long, long way that begins with school days, When little fingers blur under the tears That fall on the crooked letters.
And the earliest wound, when a little mate Leaves you alone for another; And sickness, and the face of Fear by the bed; The death of a father or mother; Or shame for them, or poverty; The maiden sorrow of school days ended; And eyeless Nature that makes you drink From the cup of Love, though you know it's poisoned; To whom would your flower-face have been lifted? Botanist, weakling? Cry of what blood to yours?--- Pure or fool, for it makes no matter, It's blood that calls to our blood.
And then your children---oh, what might they be? And what your sorrows? Child! Child! Death is better than Life!