Another term begins as school cranks up:
Three rounds of courses that I’ll cycle through,
Three balls to juggle, drills to march—Hup, Hup!—
For fourteen weeks, till their last work is due.
The rhythm of it all is old routine,
As regular as sonnets in their course,
As line by line and week by week a scene
Unfolds which sequent weeks will reinforce.
Yet each term takes a turn toward something new,
A function of the faces in each class,
For though the readings all are tried and true,
With tinkling symbols and bright sounding brass,
The ways they’re taken and responded to
Bring something never seen to our fresh view.