Success is Counted sweetest
Who have no Frigates but their books
And ramble in the Road alone—
They may hear Flies buzz
In the Room—
But they No longer pause
Where Children strive at Recess—
Or hefty fellows—in the grass
With Blue—uncertain stumbling Buzz—
Deny they ever Bashed a bird—
Or tasted liquor ever brewed.
Not one of all the Purple Host
Who took their Leave today—
Can feel a Funeral in their Brain
When they recall the Bell
That daily makes all teachers’ Feet
Mechanical, go round—
And our Nerves sit ceremonious
As kids arrive—a Gale—
Who—supercilious—peer
Into our Lunch bags and—
With horrid, hooting stanza—
Chase themselves down the Hall.
Retirees may have Bustle
In their House—at times—
But—Unmoved—they simply
Shut the door—Like Stone.
Such Madness is Divinest Sense
To a discerning Eye—
Retirement is a light escape
Into the beautiful.
(My apologies to Emily Dickinson)
(My apologies to Emily Dickinson)
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