AN old man's thought of School; <br /> An old man, gathering youthful memories and blooms, that youth itself <br /> cannot. <br /> <br /> Now only do I know you! <br /> O fair auroral skies! O morning dew upon the grass! <br /> <br /> And these I see--these sparkling eyes, <br /> These stores of mystic meaning--these young lives, <br /> Building, equipping, like a fleet of ships--immortal ships! <br /> Soon to sail out over the measureless seas, <br /> On the Soul's voyage. <br /> <br /> Only a lot of boys and girls? 10 <br /> Only the tiresome spelling, writing, ciphering classes? <br /> Only a Public School? <br /> <br /> Ah more--infinitely more; <br /> (As George Fox rais'd his warning cry, "Is it this pile of brick and <br /> mortar--these dead floors, windows, rails--you call the church? <br /> Why this is not the church at all--the Church is living, ever living <br /> Souls.") <br /> <br /> And you, America, <br /> Cast you the real reckoning for your present? <br /> The lights and shadows of your future--good or evil? <br /> To girlhood, boyhood look--the Teacher and the School.<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-old-man-s-thought-of-school/
