Down by the end of the lane it stands, <br />Where the sumac grows in a crimson thatch, <br />Down where the sweet wild berry patch, <br />Holds out a lure for eager hands. <br />Down at the end of the lane, who knows <br />The ghosts that sit at the well-scarred seats, <br />When the moon is dark, and the gray sky meets <br />With the dawn time light, and a chill wind blows? <br /> <br />Ghosts - well not ghosts, perhaps, but dreams - <br />Rather like wistful shades, that stand <br />Waiting a look or an outstretched hand, <br />To call them back where the morning gleams - <br />Dreams of the hopes we had, that died, <br />Dreams of the vivid youth we sold; <br />Dreams of a pot of rainbow gold - <br />Gold that we sought for, eager-eyed ! <br /> <br />Dreams of the plans we made, that sleep <br />With the lesson books on the dusty rack, <br />Of the joyous years that will not come back - <br />That are drowned in the tears we have learned to <br />weep. <br />Ghosts did I call them! Sweet they are <br />As a plant that grows in a desert place, <br />Sweet as a dear remembered face - <br />Sweet as a pale, courageous star. <br /> <br />Where the sumac grows in a flaming wall, <br />It stands, at the end of a little lane, <br />And there do the children come again, <br />Answering, still, the bell's shrill call, <br />Just as we came, with their songs unsung, <br />And their hopes all new, and their dreams dew <br />kissed, <br />Brave as the sun in a land of mist - <br />JUST AS WE CAME WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG!<br /><br />Margaret Elizabeth Sangster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-an-old-schoolhouse/
