8 Teacher Poems: Short, Thank You, Farewell and Appreciation Poems

“How are you so cheerful,
Gentle Edith Lane!
Be it bright or cloudy,
Fall of dew or rain,
In that lonely schoolhouse,
Patiently you stay,
Teaching simple children,
All the livelong day.”

“Teaching simple children?
I am simple, too:
So we learn together
Lessons plain as true,
From this thumb-worn Bible,
Full of love’s best lore;
Or, to read another,
Just unlatch the door.

“Can I but be cheerful
While I bid them look,
Through the sunny pages
Of each opening book?—
Showing tracks of angels,
On the footworn sod;
Listening to the music
Nature makes to God.”

“Have you then no sorrow,
Smiling Edith Lane?
Where the barberry’s coral
Rattles on the pane,
Where, in endless yellow,
Autumn flowers I see,
Working for a living
Were a woe to me.”

“Sorrow! I—a woman,
And in years not young?
Of the common chalice,
Drops are on my tongue.
What of that? No whisper
To my heart is lost,
From the barberry-clusters,
Sweetened by the frost;

“From the rooted sunshine,—
Golden-rod in bloom,
Lighting up the hillsides,
For November’s gloom.
Shall I blot with weeping
Nature’s joy and grace?
Rather be her gladness
Mirrored in my face.

“‘Working for a living’?
May no worse befall!
Love is always busy;
God works, over all.
Life is worth the earning,
For its daily cheer,
Shared with those who love me,
In yon cottage dear.

“If you can, fair lady,
Go and be a drone!
Leave me with the children,
Dear as if my own.
Leave me to the humming
Of my little hive,
Glad to earn a living,
Glad to be alive!”

I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me:
O what sweet company!

But to go to school in a summer morn,—
O it drives all joy away!
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.

Ah then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour;
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learning’s bower,
Worn through with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child, when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring?

O father and mother, if buds are nipped,
And blossoms blown away;
And if the tender plants are stripped
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care’s dismay,—

How shall the summer arise in joy,
Or the summer fruits appear?
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter appear?

1. Is reform needed? Is it through you?
The greater the reform needed, the greater the Personality you need to accomplish it.

2. You! do you not see how it would serve to have eyes, blood, complexion, clean and sweet?
Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and Soul, that when you enter the crowd, an atmosphere of desire and command enters with you, and every one is impressed with your personality?

3. O the magnet! the flesh over and over!
Go, mon cher! if need be, give up all else, and commence to-day to inure yourself to pluck, reality, self-esteem, definiteness, elevatedness,
Rest not, till you rivet and publish yourself of your own personality.

The Frost performs it’s secret ministry,
Unhelp’d by any wind. The owlet’s cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
‘Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with it’s strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! The thin blue flame
Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not:

Only that film, which flutter’d on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing,
Methinks, it’s motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me, who live,
Making it a companionable form,
With which I can hold commune. Idle thought!
But still the living spirit in our frame,
That loves not to behold a lifeless thing,
Transfuses into all it’s own delights
It’s own volition, sometimes with deep faith,
And sometimes with fantastic playfulness.
Ah me! amus’d by no such curious toys
Of the self-watching subtilizing mind,
How often in my early school-boy days,
With most believing superstitious wish
Presageful have I gaz’d upon the bars,
To watch the stranger there! and oft belike,
With unclos’d lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birthplace; and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang

From morn to evening, all the hot fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirr’d and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gaz’d I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lull’d me to sleep, and sleep prolong’d my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Aw’d by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye
Fix’d with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half-open’d, and I snatch’d
A hasty glance, and still my heart leapt up,
For still I hop’d to see the stranger’s face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more belov’d,
My play-mate when we both were cloth’d alike!
Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this dead calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it fills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think, that thou shalt learn far other lore,

And in far other scenes! For I was rear’d
In the great city, pent mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! Shalt wander, like a breeze,
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreasts sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while all the thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw: whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,

Or whether the secret ministery of cold
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon,
Like those, my babe! which, ere to-morrow’s warmth
Have capp’d their sharp keen points with pendulous drops,
Will catch thine eye, and with their novelty
Suspend thy little soul; then make thee shout,
And stretch and flutter from thy mother’s arms
As thou would’st fly for very eagerness.