School Poems | Splendid Poems That Capture The Essence Of School Days

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    We Real Cool Poem by Gwendolyn Brooks

    The Pool Players.
    Seven at the Golden Shovel.

    We real cool. We
    Left school. We

    Lurk late. We
    Strike straight. We

    Sing sin. We
    Thin gin. We

    Jazz June. We
    Die soon.

     

     

    Elizabeth Poem by Edgar Allan Poe

    Elizabeth, it surely is most fit
    [Logic and common usage so commanding]
    In thy own book that first thy name be writ,
    Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
    And I have other reasons for so doing
    Besides my innate love of contradiction;
    Each poet – if a poet – in pursuing
    The muses thro’ their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
    Has studied very little of his part,
    Read nothing, written less – in short’s a fool
    Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
    Being ignorant of one important rule,
    Employed in even the theses of the school-
    Called – I forget the heathenish Greek name
    [Called anything, its meaning is the same]
    ‘Always write first things uppermost in the heart.’

     

     

    School Is Not So Cool Poem by Chantel Braatz

    School, School, School,
    A school is not so cool
    We’re here 5 days a week
    8 hours a day.
    School, School, School,
    A school is not so cool.
    People laugh when we fall
    we just have to make a call.
    School, School, School
    A school is not so cool.
    We have to work hard to get good grades
    I’m not going to do it no more
    I do it everyday.
    We cant go on the grass
    We cant bother another class
    We cant save spots at lunch
    We have to go as a bunch.
    We have 3 minutes in the hall
    I’m always late what a ball.
    We have to pay attention
    if not we get detention.
    School, School, School,
    A school is not so cool.
    They have to many rules
    they play us as fools
    if we get A’s
    the parents jump Hip Hip Hooray.
    If we get F’s
    we tell them we need to take a rest.
    We always have homework
    we never have classwork
    they have to many rules
    they need to take it cool.
    School, School, School,
    A school is so not cool!

     

     

    Vocation Poem by Rabindranath Tagore

    When the gong sounds ten in the morning and I walk to school by our
    lane.
    Every day I meet the hawker crying, ‘Bangles, crystal
    bangles! ‘
    There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no road he must
    take, no place he must go to, no time when he must come home.
    I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in the road, crying,
    ‘Bangles, crystal bangles! ‘
    When at four in the afternoon I come back from the school,
    I can see through the gate of that house the gardener digging
    the ground.
    He does what he likes with his spade, he soils his clothes
    with dust, nobody takes him to task if he gets baked in the sun or
    gets wet.
    I wish I were a gardener digging away at the garden with
    nobody to stop me from digging.
    Just as it gets dark in the evening and my mother sends me to
    bed,
    I can see through my open window the watchman walking up and
    down.
    The lane is dark and lonely, and the street-lamp stands like
    a giant with one red eye in its head.
    The watchman swings his lantern and walks with his shadow at
    his side, and never once goes to bed in his life.
    I wish I were a watchman walking the streets all night,
    chasing the shadows with my lantern.

     

     

    Snow Day Poem by Billy Collins

    Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
    its white flag waving over everything,
    the landscape vanished,
    not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
    and beyond these windows

    the government buildings smothered,
    schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
    under the noiseless drift,
    the paths of trains softly blocked,
    the world fallen under this falling.

    In a while I will put on some boots
    and step out like someone walking in water,
    and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
    and I will shake a laden branch,
    sending a cold shower down on us both.

    But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
    a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
    I will make a pot of tea
    and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
    as glad as anyone to hear the news

    that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
    the Ding-Dong School, closed,
    the All Aboard Children’s School, closed,
    the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
    along with – some will be delighted to hear –

    the Toadstool School, the Little School,
    Little Sparrows Nursery School,
    Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
    the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
    and – clap your hands – the Peanuts Play School.

    So this is where the children hide all day,
    These are the nests where they letter and draw,
    where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
    all darting and climbing and sliding,
    all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

    And now I am listening hard
    in the grandiose silence of the snow,
    trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
    what riot is afoot,
    which small queen is about to be brought down.

     

     

    In School-Days Poem by 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.

     

     

    School Just School Poem by kerri king

    School we need it
    school, friends
    school you have teachers
    school is great
    high school is even better
    college, PARITES

    school you mite find your true love
    new experiences everyday
    school, dances
    school just school
    school who dose not love it
    school is fun

    school, preps
    school, classes
    school, math, science, computer classes
    school is great love it
    school just school
    we need school

     

     

    Two Schools Poem by Henry Van Dyke

    I put my heart to school
    In the world, where men grow wise,
    ‘Go out,’ I said, ‘and learn the rule;
    Come back when you win a prize.’

    My heart came back again:
    ‘Now where is the prize? ‘ I cried. – –
    ‘The rule was false, and the prize was pain,
    And the teacher’s name was Pride.’

    I put my heart to school
    In the woods, where veeries sing,
    And brooks run cool and clear;
    In the fields, where wild flowers spring,
    And the blue of heaven bends near.
    ‘Go out,’ I said: ‘you are half a fool,
    But perhaps they can teach you here.’

    ‘And why do you stay so long,
    My heart, and where do you roam? ‘
    The answer came with a laugh and a song, – –
    ‘I find this school is home.’

     

     

    A Paumanok Picture Poem by Walt Whitman

    TWO boats with nets lying off the sea-beach, quite still,
    Ten fishermen waiting- they discover a thick school of mossbonkers-
    they drop the join’d seine-ends in the water,
    The boats separate and row off, each on its rounding course to the
    beach, enclosing the mossbonkers,
    The net is drawn in by a windlass by those who stop ashore,
    Some of the fishermen lounge in their boats, others stand ankle-deep
    in the water, pois’d on strong legs,
    The boats partly drawn up, the water slapping against them,
    Strew’d on the sand in heaps and windrows, well out from the water,
    the green-back’d spotted mossbonkers.

     

     

    A Poet! He Hath Put His Heart To School Poem by William Wordsworth

    A poet! – He hath put his heart to school,
    Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
    Which art hath lodged within his hand- must laugh
    By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
    Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
    And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
    In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
    Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
    How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
    Because the lovely little flower is free
    Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
    And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
    Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
    But from its own divine vitality.