Poems About Youth

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee--Both were mine! Life went a-mayingWith Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young!

When I was young?--Ah, woeful when!Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!This breathing house not built with hands,This body that does me grievous wrong,O'er aery cliffs and glittering sandsHow lightly then it flash'd along:Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,

Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early;Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely.

"Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?"--"When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye."

"Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?"--"The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly.

"The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady;The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady!"

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes awayWhen the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast,But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happinessAre driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vainThe shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.

O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,--As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;There are four seasons in the mind of Man:He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clearTakes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his summer, when luxuriouslySpring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he lovesTo ruminate, and by such dreaming highIs nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wingsHe furleth close; contented so to lookOn mists in idleness--to let fair thingsPass by unheeded as a threshold brook:--

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea;Often in thought go up and downThe pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams,The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going,Crumbling away beneath our very feet;Sad is our life, for onward it is flowingIn current unperceived, because so fleet;Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,--But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing,And still, O, still their dying breath is sweet;And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft usOf that which made our childhood sweeter still;And sweet is middle life, for it hath left usA nearer good to cure an older ill;And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them,Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them!

It once might have been, once only:We lodged in a street together,You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely,I, a lone she-bird of his feather.

Your trade was with sticks and clay,You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished,Then laughed, "They will see some daySmith made, and Gibson demolished."

My business was song, song, song;I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered,"Kate Brown's on the boards ere long,And Grisi's existence embittered!"

What needs complaints,When she a placeHas with the race Of saints?

In endless mirthShe thinks not onWhat’s said or done In Earth.

She sees no tears,Or any toneOf thy deep groan She hears:

Nor does she mindOr think on’t nowThat ever thou Wast kind;

But changed above,She likes not there,As she did here, Thy love.

Forbear therefore,And lull asleepThy woes, and weep No more.

Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth?With wing at either shoulder,And smile that never left thy mouthUntil the Hours grew colder:

Then somewhat seemed to whisper nearThat thou and I must part;I doubted it; I felt no fear,No weight upon the heart.

If aught befell it, Love was byAnd rolled it off again;So, if there ever was a sigh,'Twas not a sigh of pain.

I may not call thee back; but thouReturnest when the handOf gentle Sleep waves o'er my browHis poppy-crested wand;

Then smiling eyes bend over mine,Then lips once pressed invite;But sleep hath given a silent sign,And both, alas! take flight.

Come then, as ever, like the wind at morning! Joyous, O Youth, in the agèd world renewFreshness to feel the eternities around it, Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew. The strong sun shines above thee: That strength, that radiance bring! If Winter come to Winter, When shall men hope for Spring?

I would unto my fair restoreA simple thing:The flushing cheek she had before!Out-velvetingNo more, no more,On our sad shore,The carmine grape, the moth's auroral wing.

Ah, say how winds in flooding grassUnmoor the rose;Or guileful ways the salmon passTo sea, disclose;For so, alas,With Love, alas,With fatal, fatal Love a girlhood goes.

Days of my youth,Ye have glided away;Hairs of my youth,Ye are frosted and gray;Eyes of my youth,Your keen sight is no more;Cheeks of my youth,Ye are furrowed all o'er;Strength of my youth,All your vigor is gone;Thoughts of my youth,Your gay visions are flown.

Youth hath many charms,--Hath many joys, and much delight;Even its doubts, and vague alarms,By contrast make it bright:And yet--and yet--forsooth,I love Age as well as Youth!

Well, since I love them both,The good of both I will combine,--In women, I will look for Youth,And look for Age, in wine:And then--and then--I'll blessThis twain that gives me happiness!

There are gains for all our losses,There are balms for all our pain:But when youth, the dream, departs,It takes something from our hearts,And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,Under manhood's sterner reign:Still we feel that something sweetFollowed youth, with flying feet,And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,And we sigh for it in vain:We behold it everywhere,On the earth, and in the air,But it never comes again.

Crabbèd Age and YouthCannot live together:Youth is full of pleasance,Age is full of care;Youth like summer morn,Age like winter weather;Youth like summer brave,Age like winter bare.Youth is full of sport,Age’s breath is short;Youth is nimble, Age is lame;Youth is hot and bold,Age is weak and cold;Youth is wild, and Age is tame.Age, I do abhor thee;Youth, I do adore thee;O, my Love, my Love is young!Age, I do defy thee:O, sweet shepherd, hie thee!For methinks thou stay’st too long.

Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise,Old Time will make thee colder,And though each morning new arise,Yet we each day grow older.

Thou as heaven art fair and young,Thine eyes like twin stars shining;But ere another day be sprung,All these will be declining;

Then winter comes with all his fears,And all thy sweets shall borrow;Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,And I, too late, shall sorrow.

Much did I rage when young,Being by the world oppressed,But now with flattering tongueIt speeds the parting guest.

The Scottish hinds, too poor to houseIn frosty nights their starving cows,While not a blade of grass or hayAppears from Michaelmas to May,Must let their cattle range in vainFor food along the barren plain:Meagre and lank with fasting grown,And nothing left but skin and bone;Exposed to want, and wind, and weather,They just keep life and soul together,Till summer showers and evening's dewAgain the verdant glebe renew;

I SAW him pass as the new day dawned, Murmuring some musical phrase;Horses were drinking and floundering in the pond, And the tired stars thinned their gaze;Yet these were not the spectacles at all that he conned, But an inner one, giving out rays.

Such was the thing in his eye, walking there, The very and visible thing,A close light, displacing the gray of the morning air, And the tokens that the dark was taking wing;And was it not the radiance of a purpose rare That might ripe to its accomplishing?

What became of that light? I wonder still its fate! Was it quenched ere its full apogee?Did it struggle frail and frailer to a beam emaciate? Did it thrive till matured in verity?Or did it travel on, to be a new young dreamer’s freight, And thence on infinitely?

Now and againAll my body springs alive,And the life that is polarised in my eyes,That quivers between my eyes and mouth,Flies like a wild thing across my body,Leaving my eyes half-empty, and clamorous,Filling my still breasts with a flush and a flame,Gathering the soft ripples below my breastsInto urgent, passionate waves,And my soft, slumbering bellyQuivering awake with one impulse of desire,Gathers itself fiercely together;And my docile, fluent armsKnotting themselves with wild strengthTo clasp what they have never clasped.Then I tremble, and go tremblingUnder the wild, strange tyranny of my body,Till it has spent itself,And the relentless nodality of my eyes reasserts itself,Till the bursten flood of life ebbs back to my eyes,Back from my beautiful, lonely bodyTired and unsatisfied.

The years roll on, and the head grows grey,But the longing heart doth ever pray,With a prayer too deep for words to say.

Love is the fountain of youth alway.

“Thou art old!” mocks Love, “and hast had thy day.”But the heart protesteth: “Nay, O nay!My life is love, alway, alway,And the human heart is young for aye.”

Love is a fountain of youth alway.

“Thou art old,” saith Love, “and thy debt must pay.”But the heart makes answer: “Nay, O nay!My hunger groweth every day,Grows stronger with eating the years away;Age is for earnest and youth for play,The hottest coals ’neath the ashes stay,And the human heart is young for aye.”

Love is the fountain of youth alway.