Be inspired by these short poems about schools. Our school days can be the best day of our lives. But like life, school can have its ups and downs. Here you will find poetry about the first day of school, feelings of school ending and vacation time, poems about the
end of school and
also you will find a collection of
poems written by famous poets about school.
Depending on our age we either love or hate school. And sometimes as we age school getters harder or easier. It goes without saying children need their education to give them a good foundation for life. The experiences we have in school will follow us throughout our lives. And many times as we get older we look back and realize that our school days were the best days of our lives. May these poems be ones that you share with
children to inspire them to learn all they can and do their best!
The teacher says, "open your books."
With that comment, I gave her a look.
Oh why do I have to be here
I think with a sneer.
Teachers, books, and tests I don't like
I'd rather be in the woods on a hike.
All this learning hurts my brain
School just seems like a pain.
There must be more to life I think
Pens, and paper, and just more ink
If I could only have my way
School would be just for one day!
Poet: Eleanor Farjeon
All the small children and big ones as well,
Pulling their stockings up, snatching their hats,
Cheeking and grumbling and giving back-chats,
Laughing and quarreling, dropping their things,
These at a snail’s pace and those upon wings,
Lagging behind a bit, running ahead,
Waiting at corners for lights to turn red,
Some of them scurrying,
Others not worrying,
Carelessly trudging or anxiously hurrying,
All through the streets they are coming pell-mell
At the Nine-o'clock Bell!
I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day,
I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play,
And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood,
And I am very happy, for I know that I’ve been good.
We are students now called Greenhorns
But Oh, we do not care,
For soon there’ll be another class
Who that same name must bear.
For when we change to Sophomores
We’re sure they cannot say,
The Freshmen class of twenty four
Did nothing else but play.
And when the Juniors we become,
The school will smile at us
And say: “Those one time Freshies
Succeed without a fuss."
But oh, when we are Seniors
In our motto we’ll confide-
Because we mean to show them
That since Freshman days we’ve tried.
Grade one, grade two, grade three
Were fun, happy, and free
I made friends and had lots of play
I loved going to school every day.
But then came four, five, and six
The work seemed hard as bricks.
We now were subject to many tests
Maybe school is not what they suggest.
Next, you know came seven, eight, and nine
I felt I was starting to shine
I could do a lot of things on my own
Sometimes school just made me groan.
And the last, ten, eleven, and twelve
School I was ready to shelve.
But when graduation day came
I proudly showed my diploma in the frame.
The next chapter of life for me
Will see me in university for my degree
May the foundation that my teachers gave
Serve me well in every way.
"The Years Of School" by Catherine Pulsifer reflects on the different stages of a school journey. In the early grades, like one, two, and three, school is full of fun, friends, and play,
and the speaker enjoys it. However, as they progress to grades four, five, and six, they face tougher challenges and tests, making them question if school is what it's cracked up to be.
Then, in grades seven, eight, and nine, they start to feel more confident and capable, though school can still be a bit frustrating. Finally, in grades ten, eleven, and twelve, the speaker
is ready to leave school behind, but upon graduation, they proudly display their diploma. You may also find inspiration in these graduation poems
School enough, I am going to quit
I have had enough I am going to split
Why do I have to go,
What do I have to show?
I talked about this to friends of mine
They did not think quitting would be fine
They said, "What will you do
No education, no job for you."
I thought about the words they said
And even though school I dread
I need this education to survive
I will change my attitude and thrive.
Going To School
Poet: M. E. B.
Dear little one good-bye, a pleasant walk for you
On a summer morning early.
When the flowers and the grass are wet with dew,
That hangs in little drops so pearly.
The sun is shining bright, and the birds so sweetly sing.
As you walk to the school every morning;
And always are in time, e'er the bell begins to ring,
"Dull sleep and your downy bed scorning."
Both the Latin and the French are quite difficult I know,
But my brother conquers each of them with gladness;
And how nice it is to think that a clever boy he'll grow,
For he knows to be a dunce would give us sadness.
Once more I say "good-bye," I will think of you the while
You are busily engaged knowledge earning,
And when at evening you return, friends will greet you with a smile.
To welcome you from study and from learning.
The Old Red Schoolhouse
Poet: Howard Carleton Tripp
There it stood many years by the edge of the grove,
On the brow of a beautiful hill;
Not quite a fit object for children to love,
It was built without beauty or skill.
Its weather-worn siding was once painted red
Its windows were dirty, and black was the door;
The pupils it sheltered are nearly all dead,
They never will scuffle again on its floor.
It stood there defiant through winter's bleak hours.
Its shingles were rotten from time and decay;
In summer the dooryard was gaudy with flowers.
Where the children would scamper and merrily play;
Its chimney was battered and broken with stones,
Its benches were whittied in comic relief ;
Whenever I pass it the doleful wind moans
Through the rafters, so old, like a spirit of grief.
Its half-plastered walls were smoky and brown,
The ceiling overhead was the color of slate;
'Twas here they assembled, — the best of the town,
On long winter evenings in earnest debate.
'Twas here that the preacher each Sabbath would come,
And dolefully mumble his time-honored prayers,
And preach a long sermon on our final home,
That lightened our purses, and also our cares.
'Twas here the schoolmaster would pummel the boys,
And fevor the maidens in all of their ways;
'Twas here that the children of mischief and noise
Spent many glad hours, the best of their days.
From its door the black hearses wound over the hill,
And carried their burdens of sorrow away;
And now the old house is deserted and still,
'Tis sunk into ruins, and gone to decay.
A School Break
Poet: E. K. Linton
Into the yard a rush of little feet;
And then the summer air enshrines delight
Of children's laughter in its fall and flight;
While the sun shines more gaily, since such sweet
Divine fair faces turn like flowers to greet
His gentle gaze, and his gold beams may light
In tender kisses slow and exquisite
On their soft mouths that smile beneath his heat.
Ah, sweeter far, I ween, to the Lord's ear
This joyous laughter than the solemn hymn
Of white-robed choir in measured melody
Pacing the aisle of some cathedral dim;
Nay, for God surely smiles and counts most dear
Of all his wealth this childish ecstasy.
Junior Class Poem
Poet: Adelore Ferron
When it’s springtime we remember
Joys we had in bleak December
So when alone we must recall
The peace we felt in study hall.
Now is the time when pondering
We put ourselves to wondering
Of what we did or left undone
When as Juniors we had our fun.
A final thought but not the least
Sure as the sun rose in the East
We’ve loved our school its praises sung
And in our studies we have won.
The daisies and the buttercups
Now merrily are growing;
And everywhere, for June's sweet sake,
Are crimson roses blowing.
The sunbeams o'er the meadows lie,
And breezes light are straying;
And oh! 'tis time the schools were done,
And children out a playing.
"Vacation is the time for fun!"
All girls and boys are saying,
When schools and books grow wearisome,
And hearts are ripe for playing.
So, little folks, come one and all,
And tumble out together,
Amid the sunbeam's golden bright,
All in the sweet June weather.
Afternoon in School - The Last Lesson
Poet: D. H. Lawrence
When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart
My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start
Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,
I can haul them and urge them no more.
No more can I endure to bear the brunt
Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score
Of several insults of blotted pages and scrawl
Of slovenly work that they have offered me.
I am sick, and tired more than any thrall
Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.
And shall I take
The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul
Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume
Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll
Of their insults in punishment? - I will not!
I will not waste myself to embers for them,
Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot,
For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep
Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep
Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell
It all for them, I should hate them -
I will sit and wait for the bell.
Do Your Best
Poet: Phoebe Cary
Do your best, your very best,
And do it every day.
Little boys and little girls,
That is the wisest way.
I Got To Go To School
Poet: Nixon Waterman
I'd like to hunt the Injuns 'at roam the boundless less plain!
I'd like to be a pirate an' plough the ragin' main
An' capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule,
But I just can't be nothin' 'cause I got to go to school.
'Most all great men, so I have read, has been the ones 'at got
The least amount o' learnin' by a flickerin' pitchpine knot;
An' many a darin' boy like me grows up to be a fool.
An' never 'mounts to nothin' 'cause he's got to go to school.
I'd like to be a cowboy an' rope the Texas steer!
I'd like to be a sleuth-houn' er a bloody buccaneer!
An' leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool,
But how kin I git famous? 'cause I got to go to school.
I don't see how my parents kin make the big mistake
O' keepin' down a boy like me 'at 's got a name to make.
It ain't no wonder boys is bad an' balky as a mule;
Life ain't worth livin' if you've got to waste your time in school.
I 'd like to be regarded as " The Terror of the Plains! "
I'd like to hear my victims shriek an' clank their prison-chains!
I'd like to face the enemy with gaze serene an' cool,
An' wipe 'em off the earth! but, pshaw! I got to go to school.
What good is 'rithmatic an' things exceptin' just fer girls
Er them there Fauntleroys 'at wears their hair in twisted curls?
An' if my name is never seen on hist'ry's page, why, you'll
Remember 'at it's all just 'cause I got to go to school.
You Never Can Tell!
Poet: Althea Randolph
I go to school and try to read.
But it is very hard!
I'd so much rather stay at home,
And play here in the yard.
But Mother says that I must learn.
And try to be content;
For maybe some day when I'm grown
I'll be the President!
Poet: William Blake
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?
Poet: John Greenleaf Whittier
Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sleeping;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry-vines are creeping.
Within, the master's desk is seen,
Deep-scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;
The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!
Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting.
It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.
For near it stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled;
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.
Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered;--
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.
"I'm sorry that I spelt the word:
I hate to go above you,
Because," - the brown eyes lower fell, -
"Because, you see, I love you!"
Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!
He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her, because they love him.
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
Vacation time! How glad it seemed
When as a boy I sat and dreamed
Above my school books, of the fun
That I should claim when toil was done;
And, Oh, how oft my youthful eye
Went wandering with the patch of sky
That drifted by the window panes
O'er pleasant fields and dusty lanes,
Where I would race and romp and shout
The very moment school was out.
My artful little fingers then
Feigned labor with the ink and pen,
But heart and mind were far away,
Engaged in some glad bit of play.
The last two weeks dragged slowly by;
Time hadn't then learned how to fly.
It seemed the clock upon the wall
From hour to hour could only crawl,
And when the teacher called my name,
Unto my cheeks the crimson came,
For I could give no answer clear
To questions that I didn't hear.
"Wool gathering, were you?" oft she said
And smiled to see me blushing red.
Her voice had roused me from a dream
Where I was fishing in a stream,
And, if I now recall it right,
Just at the time I had a bite.
And now my youngsters dream of play
In just the very selfsame way;
And they complain that time is slow
And that the term will never go.
Their little minds with plans are filled
For joyous hours they soon will build,
And it is vain for me to say,
That have grown old and wise and gray,
That time is swift, and joy is brief;
They'll put no faith in such belief.
To youthful hearts that long for play
Time is a laggard on the way.
'Twas, Oh, so slow to me back then
Ere I had learned the ways of men!
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
In classrooms where knowledge breathes,
Teachers harbor wisdom like gentle sheaths.
With chalk and charts, their guidance flows,
Nurturing minds, as understanding grows.
Within the school learning takes flight,
As fertile thoughts bloom with pure delight.
Plus in the library's embrace so grand,
Vast treasures await, on every hand.
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 see - these sparkling eyes,
These stores of mystic meaning--these young lives,
Building, equipping, like a fleet of ships - immortal ships!
Soon to sail out over the measureless seas,
On the Soul's voyage.
Only a lot of boys and girls?
Only the tiresome spelling, writing, ciphering classes?
Only a Public School?
Ah more--infinitely more;
(As George Fox rais'd his warning cry, "Is it this pile of brick and
mortar--these dead floors, windows, rails--you call the church?
Why this is not the church at all--the Church is living, ever living
And you, America,
Cast you the real reckoning for your present?
The lights and shadows of your future--good or evil?
To girlhood, boyhood look--the Teacher and the School.