AN old manâ€™s thought of School; An old man, gathering youthful memories and blooms, that youth itself cannot.
Now only do I know you! O fair auroral skies! O morning dew upon the grass!
And these I seeâ€”these sparkling eyes, These stores of mystic meaningâ€”these young lives, Building, equipping, like a fleet of shipsâ€”immortal ships! Soon to sail out over the measureless seas, On the Soulâ€™s voyage.
Only a lot of boys and girls? Only the tiresome spelling, writing, ciphering classes? Only a Public School?
Ah moreâ€”infinitely more; (As George Fox raisâ€™d his warning cry, â€œIs it this pile of brick and mortarâ€”these dead floors, windows, railsâ€”you call the church? Why this is not the church at allâ€”the Church is living, ever living Souls.â€)
And you, America, Cast you the real reckoning for your present? The lights and shadows of your futureâ€”good or evil? To girlhood, boyhood lookâ€”the Teacher and the School.