When I was in middle school, I was in TAG Reading and English classes. TAG was what the “talented and gifted” program was called. I had the same teacher for three years and I was lucky because Mrs. Braud was awesome. :-)
At the end of our eighth grade year, she made us little photo albums with pictures from all three years. At the beginning of mine (and I’m assuming everyone else’s) was a poem that we had to write once. It was based off of Walt Whitman’s poem “There Was a Child Went Forth.” We used a slight variation of the first verse to start our poem, then we added our own verses, and concluded our poem with Whitman’s last line.
This is my version:
There was a child went forth every day, and every object she look’d upon, that object she became.
And that object became part of her for the day or a certain part of the day, or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The book and poems that were read to her,
And the flowers of springs mixed with suns of summers,
And many winds of fall and winter all became a part of that child.
The wasps and bees and lizards and snakes,
And the cookie-snowmen all became a part of that child.
The nice, hot meals enjoyed with family,
The snacks and junk and “child play” and then at last, adult treatment.
These became a part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day.
I’m fairly positive, based on the year that she included with my poem, that we wrote these towards the end of our eighth grade year specifically for these photo albums. If that’s the case, then it was written in 1998, probably around spring, right before then end of the 1997-’98 school year.
There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he look’d upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal and the cow’s calf,
And the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond-side,
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there, and the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads, all became part of him.
The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him,
Winter-grain sprouts and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover’d with blossoms and the fruit afterward, and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road,
And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the tavern whence he had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that pass’d on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass’d, and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek’d girls, and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.
His own parents, he that had father’d him and she that had conceiv’d him in her womb and birth’d him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day, they became part of him.
The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table,
The mother with mild words, clean her cap and gown, a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by,
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger’d, unjust,
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture, the yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay’d, the sense of what is real, the thought if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time, the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets, if they are not flashes and specks what are they?
The streets themselves and the facades of houses, and goods in the windows,
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank’d wharves, the huge crossing at the ferries,
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset, the river between,
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown two miles off,
The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide, the little boat slack-tow’d astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color’d clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint away solitary by itself, the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon’s edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud,
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day.