The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 76 : THE BREAKING The Lord G.o.d Speaks To A Youth Bend now thy body to the common weight: (

THE BREAKING The Lord G.o.d Speaks To A Youth

Bend now thy body to the common weight: (But oh, that vine-clad head, those limbs of morn!

Those proud young shoulders, I myself made straight!

How shall ye wear the yoke that must be worn?)

Look thou, my son, what wisdom comes to thee: (But oh, that singing mouth, those radiant eyes!

Those dancing feet--that I myself made free!

How shall I sadden them to make them wise?)

Nay, then, thou shalt! Resist not--have a care!

(Yea, I must work my plans who sovereign sit; Yet do not tremble so! I cannot bear-- Though I am G.o.d--to see thee so submit!)

Margaret Steele Anderson [1869-1921]

THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH

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 sweet Followed 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.

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

"DAYS OF MY YOUTH"

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.

Days of my youth, I wish not your recall; Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall; Eyes of my youth, You much evil have seen; Cheeks of my youth, Bathed in tears have you been; Thoughts of my youth, You have led me astray; Strength of my youth, Why lament your decay?

Days of my age, Ye will shortly be past; Pains of my age, Yet awhile ye can last; Joys of my age, In true wisdom delight; Eyes of my age, Be religion your light; Thoughts of my age, Dread ye not the cold sod; Hopes of my age, Be ye fixed on your G.o.d.

St. George Tucker [1752-1827]

AVE ATQUE VALE

Farewell my Youth! for now we needs must part, For here the paths divide; Here hand from hand must sever, heart from heart,-- Divergence deep and wide.

You'll wear no withered roses for my sake, Though I go mourning for you all day long, Finding no magic more in bower or brake, No melody in song.

Gray Eld must travel in my company To seal this severance more fast and sure.

A joyless fellows.h.i.+p, i' faith, 'twill be, Yet must we fare together, I and he, Till I shall tread the footpath way no more.

But when a blackbird pipes among the boughs, On some dim, iridescent day in spring, Then I may dream you are remembering Our ancient vows.

Or when some joy foregone, some fate forsworn, Looks through the dark eyes of the violet, I may re-cross the set, forbidden bourne, I may forget Our long, long parting for a little while, Dream of the golden splendors of your smile, Dream you remember yet.

Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]

TO YOUTH

Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth?

With wing at either shoulder, And smile that never left thy mouth Until the Hours grew colder:

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

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

I may not call thee back; but thou Returnest when the hand Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow His 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.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?

'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled: Then away with all such from the head that is h.o.a.ry!

What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

Oh Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover, She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]