Academic pressure is a reality many competitive women face, pushing them to strive harder while navigating stress and expectations.
These 10 carefully chosen poems explore the emotional highs and lows of academic life, offering comfort and inspiration for ambitious women like you.
They resonate deeply with your experience, reminding you that you’re not alone in your journey.
Let’s jump in!
My favorite poem about academic pressure for competitive women
#1 “I Got to Go to School” by Nixon Waterman
I’d like to hunt the Injuns ‘t roam the boundless plain!
I’d like to be a pirate an’ plow the ragin’ main!
An’ capture some big island, in lordly pomp to rule;
But I just can’t be nothin’ cause I got to go to school.
‘Most all great men, so I have read, has been the ones ‘at got
The least amount o’ learnin’ by a flickerin’ pitch pine knot;
An’ many a darin’ boy like me grows up to be a fool,
An’ never ‘mounts to nothin’ ’cause he’s got to go to school.
I’d like to be a cowboy an’ rope the Texas steer!
I’d like to be a sleuth-houn’ or a bloody buccaneer!
An’ leave the foe to welter where their blood had made a pool;
But how can I git famous? ’cause I got to go to school.
I don’t see how my parents kin make the big mistake.
O’ keepin’ down a boy like me ‘at’s got a name to make!
It ain’t no wonder boys is bad, an’ balky as a mule;
Life ain’t worth livin’ if you’ve got to waste your time in school.
I’d like to be regarded as “The Terror of the Plains”!
I’d like to hear my victims shriek an’ clank their prison chains!
I’d like to face the enemy with gaze serene an’ cool,
An’ wipe ’em off the earth, but pshaw! I got to go to school.
What good is ‘rithmetic an’ things, exceptin’ jest for girls,
Er them there Fauntleroys ‘at wears their hair in pretty curls?
An’ if my name is never seen on hist’ry’s page, why, you’ll
Remember ‘at it’s all because I got to go to school.
This poem resonates deeply with readers because it captures the frustration of academic pressure and the longing for freedom and adventure.
Its relatable depiction of a child’s dreams being stifled by school obligations speaks to anyone who has felt confined by educational demands.
9 more poems about academic pressure for competitive women
#2 “A New Year’s Greeting to a College Senior” by George Marion McClellan
Soft winds and a moving tide
May bear you on, I pray,
With the love of God to guide
Through the year to your B. A.
On the shores of heavenly grace,
Or the crest of the ocean’s swell,
May the smile of the Father’s face
Be the sign that all is well.
In storms, whenever they rise,
Cling close to the pilot of prayer,
Keep faith under blackest of skies
That the love of God is there.
#3 “Ye Scholar In Love” by Allen Leon Churchill
Ye light, Lucilly, of your sweet blue eyes
Quite dims the feeble rays of midnight oil;
Ye memory of what within them lies
Assuageth grief and maketh light my toil.
I sit and try to fill my eyes with bookes,
Alack, alas! the trying is most vain.
My vision seeth only your good lookes;
My heart at your far absence cries with pain.
With wisdom old and new I toil and strive,
And on my page with earnestness I stare,
Whatever I can see or dead or live
Is tangled in the meshes of your hair.-
Yet vain are all my sighs and moans for thee,
Thy thoughts to me-ward, belike, never turn;
But with one single look or word from thee
My foolish heart would never cease to burn!
#4 “Unfinished” by Charles Wilbert Snow
He sought throughout his ill-kept desk,
And found old manuscripts half done;
Dissatisfied with every test,
He sadly burned them, one by one.
He trod the maze of memory
And found the thread of plans half-laid
Which cheered his step toward days more free,
But breaking, left him still in shade.
* * * *
Persistence, come with all thy meed,
And stir us on to works complete!
Thy panoply alone we need,
To slay the Minatour Defeat.
#5 “The Teacher” by Thomas Frederick Young
Say, sadden’d mortal, thou who goest along
With look so weary, and with step so slow,
Why trillest thou no blithe and cheerful song,
Why whistlest thou that tune, so sad and low?
What trouble weighs thee down, what sorrow sore
Lies heavy on thy yet so youthful breast?
Sure fortune yet holds wide for thee her door;
Sure fame and joy yet wait thy earnest quest.
Why, know’st thou not the birds for thee do sing,
The flow’rs for thee with perfum’d beauty grow,
With melody for thee the wild birds sing,
With rippling laugh, the cheerful streamlets flow?
Then why, my friend, once more I ask of thee,
Why shows thy face so much unrest and pain?
What painful phase of life dost thou still see?
What sad, sad woe, doth in thy heart remain?
Bright flash’d the teacher’s languid eye,
Flushed his pale cheek, with bright, tho’ fleeting flame;
Leap’d forth his voice with energetic cry,
And thus, to me express’d, his thoughts they came.
“Inquirer, cease, thy words stir up the fire,
That erst did fill my live and vig’rous brain;
Thy words stir up the seeds of healthy ire,
That still, with latent pow’r and force, remain.
“‘Tis strange, thou think’st, that darkly on my brow
The shadow of a careworn spirit stays;
My youth, with springless step, doth make thee bow
Thy head, in kindly wonder, and amaze.
“Thou would’st not look with such a puzzl’d air,
Upon my weary pace, and heavy eye,
If thou didst know the cause of my despair,
The stem, substantial, solid reason why.
“Didst ever know, my friend, what I endure,
In slavish, plodding work, from day to day,
Which work should be in its own nature pure,
And lifted high, from gross and heavy clay.
“Examinations, cram and pressure high,
Are daily kept before my anxious mind;
What tho’ for higher aims I daily sigh,
This is my work, and this my daily grind.
“I work, you say, on minds, and hearts, and souls,
Alas, ’tis true, but what can e’er atone
For dry, mechanic thought, and lifeless coals,
Which light not up, but turn the intellect to stone?
“Work on! ye faithful, grinding and hair-splitting band,
Work on, in slavish fear, and penitential pain,
But daily pray, that thro’ this young and prosp’rous land,
A system, higher, purer, freer, yet shall reign.
“Yours shall not be the blame, the people must it bear,
For, while they look for quick results, for hot-bed flow’rs,
Amongst them, they the various ills must surely share,
Of hasty fev’rish work, compell’d by outside pow’rs.”
Thus spoke the man, and closed his lips became,
The fire forsook his lately flashing eye,
His nerves relax’d, and o’er his brow, the same
Dark cloud of bitter woe, could I descry.
#6 From “The Student’s Dream” by Howard Miller
America held post amid the throng
In science, art, philosophy, and song;
Her statesmen stood sublimely grand and great,
Those old custodians of the infant state,
Whose counsel wisdom was, and in whose mind
Dwelt love of country, with love for mankind ;
Whose laws were stringent, though without offense,
The product of their kindliness and sense;
Those monarch minds of our one golden age,
Who knew fanatic follies to assuage
The foremost he who independence won,
Earth’s noblest son, our world-loved Washington.
Historians too, their numerous ranks preserving,
Were marshalled well by Prescott and by Irving;
Her poets stood, an ever-lengthening row,
Headed by Longfellow and by weird Poe;
And endless lines of other men appear
Whom time permitteth not to mention here.
But this beside of that sweet vision sped,
To crown the close, remaineth to be said:
When all the library’s vast wealth was told,
In treasure richer than the minted gold,
Close-stowed in all its glass-sheathed shelves and nooks
There rested full one hundred thousand books.
Dazzled with splendor, wakened with its gleam,
I woke to find it but a splendid dream;
To know on Broadway it existed not,
But only there, there lay the vacant lot.
But dreams in olden times prophetic grew,
And imaged forth what wonders would ensue.
So be it now! Great City, prove thy worth,
By such like noble actions brought to birth!
Nor longer let thy students languish,
Relieving thus their deepest mental anguish.
Give largest sums, munificently give;
Bid budding literature put forth and live;
Erect her palace, splendid, grand, and vast,
Worthy to house the trophies of the past,
Worthy to garner what the future brings
From him who wisely speaks or writes or sings ,
And truest men will love you to the core
When this great deed is done, and not before.
#7 “The Old Room” by John Clair Minot
‘Tis an old and faded picture of a room in Appleton,
And it thrills my heart to see it with a pleasure that is pain;
And I forget the changes of the years that hurry on,
And find myself at Bowdoin in that old room again.
The desk is in the corner with the bookcase standing near,
And the window with the little panes is open to the west;
And, sitting there beside them with the pose of Junior year,
I see an idle student, in cap and sweater dressed.
Some half a dozen pictures keep the desk from being bare,
And half a dozen others are tacked upon the wall;
And all are maidens’ pictures and all of them are fair,
And the happy Bowdoin Junior is sure he loves them all.
The open grate looks cheerful, but the fire is surely out,
‘Twas a trick it often played us, though my roommate was to blame.
Those signs upon the mantel were swiped, beyond a doubt;
Some college fashions alter, but this is still the same.
That little piece of bell-rope was taken Freshman year;
That strip of rival banner was a Sophomoric gain;
That horn was in the concert -alas ! the tale we hear,
Of all the good old customs they won’t let one remain.
There are books upon the table and piled up in the case;
And some, ‘ tis plain to notice, are scattered on the floor;
Not all are learned volumes, as should be in such place,
A few, no doubt, are ” horses, ” and the Junior yearns for more.
The delegation picture is hanging plain and high,
With the dear old class beside it- where are those boys to-day ?
Diverging wide and wider their various pathways lie,
But a common bond unites them that will not wear away.
‘Tis an old and faded picture of a room in Appleton,
And it thrills my heart to see it with a pleasure that is pain;
For Time has wrought his changes and the dear old room is gone,
And, like the days passed in it, cannot be mine again.
And so the eye gets misty, while the Junior in his chair
Sits dreaming o’er those happy dreams that long ago were mine.
I seem to feel the campus breeze that stirs the curtain there,
And o’er my soul comes stealing the perfume of the pine.
#8 “Try, Try Again” by Anonymous
‘Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try, try again;
If at first you don’t succeed,
Try, try again;
Then your courage shall appear,
For if you will persevere,
You will conquer, never fear,
Try, try again.
Once or twice though you should fail,
Try, try again;
If at last you would prevail,
Try, try again;
If we strive ’tis no disgrace
Tho’ we may not win the race,
What should you do in that case?
Try, try again.
If you find your task is hard,
Try, try again;
Time will bring you your reward,
Try, try again;
All that other folks can do,
Why, with patience, may not you?
Only keep this rule in view,
Try, try again.
#9 “To My Mother” by Joyce Kilmer
Gentlest of critics, does your memory hold
(I know it does) a record of the days
When I, a schoolboy, earned your generous praise
For halting verse and stories crudely told?
Over these childish scrawls the years have rolled,
They might not know the world’s unfriendly gaze;
But still your smile shines down familiar ways,
Touches my words and turns their dross to gold.
More dear to-day than in that vanished time
Comes your nigh praise to make me proud and strong.
In my poor notes you hear Love’s splendid chime,
So unto you does this, my work belong.
Take, then, a little gift of fragile rhyme:
Your heart will change it to authentic song.
#10 “Johnny’s Hist’ry Lesson” by Nixon Waterman
I think, of all the things at school
A boy has got to do,
That studyin’ hist’ry, as a rule,
Is worst of all, don’t you?
Of dates there are an awful sight,
An’ though I study day an’ night,
There’s only one I’ve got just right—
That’s fourteen ninety-two.
Columbus crossed the Delaware
In fourteen ninety-two;
We whipped the British, fair an’ square,
In fourteen ninety-two.
At Concord an’ at Lexington.
We kept the redcoats on the run,
While the band played Johnny Get Your Gun,
In fourteen ninety-two.
Pat Henry, with his dyin’ breath—
In fourteen ninety-two—
Said, “Gimme liberty or death!”
In fourteen ninety-two.
An’ Barbara Frietchie, so ’tis said,
Cried, “Shoot if you must this old, gray head,
But I’d rather ‘twould be your own instead!”
In fourteen ninety-two.
The Pilgrims came to Plymouth Rock
In fourteen ninety-two,
An’ the Indians standin’ on the dock
Asked, “What are you goin’ to do?”
An’ they said, “We seek your harbor drear
That our children’s children’s children dear
May boast that their forefathers landed here
In fourteen ninety-two.”
Miss Pocahontas saved the life—
In fourteen ninety-two—
Of John Smith, an’ became his wife
In fourteen ninety-two.
An’ the Smith tribe started then an’ there,
An’ now there are John Smiths ev’rywhere,
But they didn’t have any Smiths to spare
In fourteen ninety-two.
Kentucky was settled by Daniel Boone
In fourteen ninety-two,
An’ I think the cow jumped over the moon
In fourteen ninety-two.
Ben Franklin flew his kite so high
He drew the lightnin’ from the sky,
An’ Washington couldn’t tell a lie,
In fourteen ninety-two.