As the poor schoolboy, when the slow-paced months <br />Have brought vacation times, and one by one <br />His playmates and companions all are fled <br />Or ready; and to him—to him alone <br />No summons comes; he left of all the train <br />Paces with lingering step the vacant halls, <br />No longer murmuring with the Muse's song, <br />And silent play-ground scattered wide around <br />With implements of sports, resounding once <br />With cheerful shouts; and hears no sound of wheels <br />To bear him to his father's bosom home; <br />For, conscious though he be of time misspent, <br />And heedless faults and much amiss, yet hopes <br />A father's pardon and a father's smile <br />Blessing his glad return……Thus I <br />Look to the hour when I shall follow those <br />That are at rest before me.<br /><br />Anna Laetitia Barbauld<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fragment-15/
