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The carved tops of the desks Tell us little stories Of students gone before us, Leaving us their glories. Here a boy's name blinks, And here a girl's name smiles; And I think of how she Flung at him her wiles. Now perhaps they're married With children of their own -- Or perhaps they're by themselves Old, weary and alone. Some are in college, Studying merrily, And some are gone beyond Life's bitter, stormy sea. Boys' names linked with girls' In crooked little hearts Or their hearts put together With Cupid's tiny darts. Here a sign of anger, And here a sign of fun, And here a sign that he Thought her the only one. Here a bit of history -- Or English, even math. These are the only footprints We leave along Life's path. Here's a football hero, And here's a little flirt, Who squeals when the wind blows hard And clutches at her skirt. Ah, what our desks could tell us If each were given tongue Of people now old and gone And when they, too, were young. Just study them a moment And see what you can see, And someday someone else Might read of you and me In some foolish little mark Here or there on top. O, they tell such stories That will probably never stop.  (1941)
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Copyright © 2001, Patricia Morse-McNeely
A Cousin's Website
by Mary