To The Memory Of Raisley Calvert
CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them
Who may respect my name, that I to thee
Owed many years of early liberty.
This care was thine when sickness did condemn
Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem--
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray
Where'er I liked; and finally array
My temples with the Muse's diadem.
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth;
If there be aught of pure, or good, or great,
In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays
Of higher mood, which now I meditate;--
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth!
To think how much of this will be thy praise.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Related quotes
Sonnet 38:
How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O! give thy self the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Sonnet 38: How can my Muse want subject to invent
How can my Muse want subject to invent
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
poem by William Shakespeare
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A Madrigal
Crabbed Age and Youth
Cannot 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 sports,
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.
poem by William Shakespeare
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The King [ I ]
AMONG the sons of Englishmen
Full many feel like real tears,
For, though he reigned but scarcely ten,
He bore the burden many years.
He lived the dead past doubly down,
He shamed, by manliness and truth,
The lies that beat about a crown,
And round a known man in his youth.
For he had lived as men have done
Since Adam’s time, to prove them true.
He proved it in his manhood’s prime,
And to the end, as strong men do.
And so he died, and, ever since,
And on through years the words shall ring:
“He lived a man, he lived a prince,
And died a gentleman and King.”
Unto the friends of his hot youth,
In his wise age, he still was true.
He showed, by steadfastness and truth,
What kings as well as men can do;
Till all was manlike or forgot,
Long years ere he found his release;
He made them loyal who were not,
He won respect, and kept the peace.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Youth
Mood of youth,
Mood of youth,
Eagle-like must seek the blue,
Dauntlessly its course pursue,
All the mountain-heights must view.
Blood of youth,
Blood of youth,
Steam-like puts full-speed to sea,
E'en though storm and ice there be,
Makes its way and romps in glee.
Dream of youth,
Dream of youth,
Rogue-like stealing sets its snare
In the maiden's morning-prayer;
All the springtime, fragrant, glowing,
In its airy waves is flowing.
Joy of youth,
Joy of youth,
Waterfall-like foams in truth,
Laughing, rainbow-gifts forth flashing,
Even while to death 't is dashing.
Joy of youth,
Dream of youth,
Blood of youth,
Mood of youth,
Clothe the world with colors golden,
Singing songs that never olden.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Not Love
I HAVE not yet I could have loved thee, sweet;
Nor know I wherefore, thou being all thou art,
The engrafted thought in me throve incomplete,
And grew to summer strength in every part
Of root and leaf, but hath not borne the flower.
Love hath refrained his fullness from my heart.
I know no better beauty, none with power
To hold mine eyes through change and change as thine,
Like southern skies that alter with each hour,
And yet are changeless, and their calm divine
From light to light hath motionlessly passed,
With only different loveliness for sign.
I know no fairer nature, nor where, cast
On the clear mirror of thine own young truth,
The imaged things of Heaven lie plainer glassed;
Nor where more fit alike show tender ruth,
And anger for the right, and hopes aglow,
And joy and sighs of April-hearted youth.
But some day I, so wont to praise thee so
With unabashed warm words for all to hear,
Shall scarcely name another, speaking low.
Some day, methinks, and who can tell how near?
I may, to thee unchanged, be praising thee
With one not worthier but a world more dear;
With one I know not yet, who shall, maybe,
Be not so fair, be not in aught thy peer;
Who shall be all that thou art not to me.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Youth is blind
Youth is power; youth is vigour;
Youth is initiative; youth is revolutionary;
Youth is dedication; youth is freedom;
Youth is love; youth is passion.
Yes, because youth is blind
Out of them elders make winds
01.01.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Age considers, youth ventures
Age considers, youth ventures
Age visualizes, youth dreams
Age makes theories, youth experiments
Age loves, youth longs
Age sees people, youth sees places
Age knows belongings, youth discovers them
Age pains to gain, youth gains to others' pain
Age has heart, youth has mind
Age is thoughtful, youth is tactful
Age ponders, youth wonders
Age recounts, youth counts
Age is experienced, youth is in experience
Age is cautious, youth dashes
Age floats, youth swims
Age lives, youth still making a living
Age is in touch with termination, youth with determination
Age is confident, youth is competent
Age adds years to living, youth adds life to living
Age is lost in past, youth is drowned in future
Age is grown, youth is crown
Ageless is youth, youthless is age
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Flaming Youth
Whoo yeah
My parents think Im crazy and they hate the things I do
Im stupid and Im lazy, man, if they only knew
How flaming youth will set the world on fire
Flaming youth, our flag is flying higher and higher and higher
My uniform is leather, and my power is my age
Im gettin it together to break out of my cage
cause flaming youth will set the world on fire
Flaming youth will set the world on fire
Flaming youth, our flag is flying higher and higher and higher
Flaming youth will set the world on fire
Flaming youth will set the world on fire
Flaming youth will set the world on fire
Flaming youth will set the world on fire
Flaming youth will set the world on fire
Flaming youth, our flag is flying higher and higher
And higher and higher and higher and higher and higher
song performed by by Kiss
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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His Youth
Dying? I am not dying. Are you mad?
You think I need to ask for heavenly grace?
\I\ think \you\ are a fiend, who would be glad
To see me struggle in death's cold embrace.
'But, man you lie! for I am strong-in truth
Stronger than I have been in years; and soon
I shall feel young again as in my youth,
My glorious youth-life's one great priceless boon.
'O youth, youth, youth! O God, that golden time,
When proud and glad I laughed the hours away.
Why, there's no sacrifice (perhaps no crime)
I'd pause at, could it make me young to-day.
'But I'm not \old\! I grew-just ill, somehow;
Grew stiff of limb, and weak, and dim of sight.
It was but sickness. I am better now,
Oh, vastly better, ever since last night.
'And I could weep warm floods of happy tears
To think my strength is coming back at last,
For I have dreamed of such an hour for years,
As I lay thinking of my glorious past.
'You shake your head? Why, man, if you were sane
I'd strike you to my feet, I would, in truth.
How dare you tell me that my hopes are vain?
How dare you say I have outlived my youth?
''In heaven I may regain it?' Oh, be still!
I want no heaven but what my glad youth gave.
Its long, bright hours, its rapture and its thrill-
O youth, youth, youth! it is my \youth\ I crave.
'There is no heaven! There's nothing but a deep
And yawning grave from which I shrink in fear.
I am not sure of even rest or sleep;
Perhaps we lie and \think\, as I have here.
'Think, think, think, think, as we lie there and rot,
And hear the young above us laugh in glee.
How dare you say I'm dying! \I am not\.
I would curse God if such a thing could be.
'Why, see me stand! why, hear this strong, full breath-
Dare you repeat that silly, base untruth?'
A cry-a fall-the silence known as death
Hushed his wild words. Well, has he found his youth?
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Friends
NOW must I these three praise --
Three women that have wrought
What joy is in my days:
One because no thought,
Nor those unpassing cares,
No, not in these fifteen
Many-times-troubled years,
Could ever come between
Mind and delighted mind;
And one because her hand
Had strength that could unbind
What none can understand,
What none can have and thrive,
Youth's dreamy load, till she
So changed me that I live
Labouring in ecstasy.
And what of her that took
All till my youth was gone
With scarce a pitying look?
How could I praise that one?
When day begins to break
I count my good and bad,
Being wakeful for her sake,
Remembering what she had,
What eagle look still shows,
While up from my heart's root
So great a sweetness flows
I shake from head to foot.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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To the Reverend George Coleridge, of Ottery St. Mary, Devon
A blessed lot hath he, who having past
His youth and early manhood in the stir
And turmoil of the world, retreats at length,
With cares that move, not agitate the heart,
To the same dwelling where his father dwelt;
And haply views his tottering little ones
Embrace those aged knees, and climb that lap,
On which first kneeling his own infancy
Lisped its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest friend!
Thine and thy brothers' favorable lot.
At distance did ye climb life's upland road,
Yet cheered and cheering: now fraternal love
Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days
Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live!
To me th' Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed
A different fortune and more different mind.--
Me from the spot where first I sprang to light,
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fixed
Its first domestic loves; and hence through life
Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while
Some have preserved me from life's pelting ills;
But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem,
If the clouds lasted, or a sudden breeze
Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once
Dropt the collected shower: and some most false,
False and fair-foliaged as the manchineel,
Have tempted me to slumber in their shade
E'en mid the storm; then breathing subtlest damps,
Mixed their own venom with the rain from heaven,
That I woke poisoned! But (the praise be His
Who gives us all things) more have yielded me
Permanent shelter: and beside one friend,
I, as beneath the covert of an oak,
Have raised a lowly shed, and know the names
Of husband and of father; nor unhearing
Of that divine and nightly-whispering voice,
Which from my childhood to maturer years
Spake to me of predestinated wreaths,
Bright with no fading colors!
Yet at times
My soul is sad, that I have roamed through life
Still most a stranger, most with naked heart,
At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then,
When I remember thee, my earliest friend!
Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth;
Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye;
And, boding evil yet still hoping good,
Rebuked each fault and wept o'er all my woes.
Who counts the beatings of the lonely heart,
That Being knows, how I have loved thee ever,
Loved as a brother, as a son revered thee!
O 'tis to me an ever new delight,
To talk of thee and thine; or when the blast
Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash,
Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl;
Or when, as now, on some delicious eve,
We in our sweet sequestered orchard-plot
Sit on the tree crooked earthward; whose old boughs,
That hand above us in an arborous roof,
Stirred by the faint gale of departing May,
Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads!
Nor dost thou sometimes recall those hours,
When with the joy of hope thou gav'st thine ear
To my wild firstling lays. Since then my song
Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem
Of that sad wisdom, folly leaves behind;
Or the high raptures of prophetic faith;
Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times,
Cope with the tempest's swell!
These various songs,
Which I have framed in many a various mood,
Accept, my brother; and (for some perchance
Will strike discordant on thy milder mind)
If aught of error or intemperate truth
Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age
Will calm it down, and let thy loves forgive it!
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Fill The Goblet Again: A Song
Fill the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;
Let us drink!--who would not?--since, through life's varied round,
In the goblet alone no deception is found.
I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have loved!--who has not?--but what heart can declare
That pleasure existed while passion was there?
In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,
And dreams that affection can never take wing,
I had friends!--who has not?--but what tongue will avow,
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?
The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam--thou never canst change;
Thou grow'st old--who does not?--but on earth what appears,
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?
Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We aree jealous!--who is not?--thou hast no such alloy;
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find--do we not?--in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.
When the box of Pandora was opened on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,
Hope was left,--was she not?--but the goblet we kiss,
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.
Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:
We must die--who shall not?--May our sins be forgiven,
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.
At the Close of the Year
Let hearts and tongues unite,
And loud thanksgivings raise:
'Tis duty, mingled with delight,
To sing the Saviour's praise.
To him we owe our breath,
He took us from the womb,
Which else had shut us up in death,
And prov'd an early tomb.
When on the breast we hung,
Our help was in the Lord;
'Twas he first taught our infant tongue
To form the lisping word.
When in our blood we lay,
He would not let us die,
Because his love had fix'd a day
To bring salvation nigh.
In childhood and in youth,
His eye was on us still:
Though strangers to his love and truth,
And prone to cross his will.
And since his name we knew,
How gracious has he been:
What dangers has he led us through,
What mercies have we seen!
Now through another year,
Supported by his care,
We raise our Ebenezer here,
"The Lord has help'd thus far."
Our lot in future years
Unable to foresee,
He kindly, to prevent our fears,
Says, "Leave it all to me."
Yea, Lord, we wish to cast
Our cares upon thy breast!
Help us to praise thee for the past,
And trust thee for the rest.
poem by John Newton
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The Youth And The Old
the youth and the old-
o what a contrast in between!
the youth is unapologetically mindful
of every millimeter of its dress
for its match, crease, fitness, and what not,
craning and twisting its neck in front of the mirror
and straining every nerve to put up a decent show
everytime it steps out of the house!
the old cares the least for anything
and moves out shabbily unmindful of stature -
while the youth cares all for looks and joy
the old pines for the health of its soul
visiting whatever that is holy
and dwelling wherever it could smell peace!
while the temples are for the pleasures of youth
they are the holy rivers to cleanse the souls of the old.
the youth sprays the worthless ever with matching hearts
the old broods within itself submerging in the sparks of the past!
the youth, does it care for the future?
the old tunes its ears to the knocks of death.
the youth dares death at its cave
but the old, though wishes death,
is terribly afraid of even to listen its distant footfalls!
-s.chandra kalaadhar
poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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Hymn 23 part 2
A hopeful youth falling short of heaven.
Mark 10:21.
Must all the charms of nature, then,
So hopeless to salvation prove?
Can hell demand, can heav'n condemn,
The man whom Jesus deigns to love?
The man who sought the ways of truth,
Paid friends and neighbors all their due;
A modest, sober, lovely youth,
And thought he wanted nothing new.
But mark the change; thus spake the Lord-
"Come, part with earth for heav'n today:"
The youth, astonished at the word,
In silent sadness went his way.
Poor virtues that he boasted so,
This test unable to endure;
Let Christ, and grace, and glory go,
To make his land and money sure!
Ah, foolish choice of treasures here!
Ah, fatal love of tempting gold!
Must this base world be bought so dear?
Are life and heav'n so cheaply sold?
In vain the charms of nature shine,
If this vile passion govern me:
Transform my soul, O love divine!
And make me part with all for thee.
poem by Isaac Watts
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To Ianthe
Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed:
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they beamed -
To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?
Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love’s image upon earth without his wing,
And guileless beyond Hope’s imagining!
And surely she who now so fondly rears
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,
Beholds the rainbow of her future years,
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.
Young Peri of the West! - ’tis well for me
My years already doubly number thine;
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine:
Happy, I ne’er shall see them in decline;
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign
To those whose admiration shall succeed,
But mixed with pangs to Love’s even loveliest hours decreed.
Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle’s,
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,
Glance o’er this page, nor to my verse deny
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh,
Could I to thee be ever more than friend:
This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why
To one so young my strain I would commend,
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.
Such is thy name with this my verse entwined;
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast
On Harold’s page, Ianthe’s here enshrined
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:
My days once numbered, should this homage past
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre
Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast,
Such is the most my memory may desire;
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?
poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
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Youth Youth Youth
Youth youth youth
Youth youth youth
Never wanna be an adult
Always wanna be in revolt
Youth youth youth
Youth youth youth
Don't wanna spend my life saving up for things
Don't wanna have what a steady job brings
I don't want security
Don't want responsibility
Don't wanna stay at home not making any noise
I've always got to be out
I've always got to have a choice
I don't want security
Don't want responsibility
Youth youth youth
Youth youth youth
I don't want no uniform
I don't want no book of rules
Youth youth youth
Youth youth youth
Never wanna be an adult
Always wanna be in revolt
Youth youth youth
Youth youth youth
I don't want no uniform
I don't want no book of rules
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alas for Youth
Much have I labored, much read o'er
Of Arabic and Persian lore,
Collecting tales unknown and known;
Now two and sixty years are flown.
Regret, and deeper woe of sin,
'Tis all that youth has ended in,
And I with mournful thoughts rehearse
Bu Táhir Khusrawáni's verse:
'I mind me of my youth and sigh,
Alas for youth, for youth gone by!'
poem by Hakim Abu'l-Qasim Ferdowsi Tusi Firdowsi
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To Giovanni Salzilli, A Roman Poet, In His Illness. Scazons (Translated From Milton)
My halting Muse, that dragg'st by choice along
Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song!
And lik'st that pace expressive of thy cares
Not less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs
When in the dance she beats with measur'd tread
Heav'n's floor in front of Juno's golden bed,
Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine
Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine.
Thus writes that Milton then, who wafted o'er
From his own nest on Albion's stormy shore
Where Eurus, fiercest of th'Aeolian band,
Sweeps with ungovern'd rage the blasted land,
Of late to more serene Ausonia came
To view her cities of illustrious name,
To prove, himself a witness of the truth,
How wise her elders, and how learn'd her Youth.
Much good, Salsillus! and a body free
From all disease, that Milton asks for thee,
Who now endur'st the languor, and the pains
That bile inflicts diffus'd through all thy veins,
Relentless malady! not mov'd to spare
By thy sweet Roman voice, and Lesbian air!
Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies,
And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies,
Pythius, or Paean, or what name divine
Soe'er thou chuse, haste, heal a priest of thine!
Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that melt
With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt!
If aught salubrious in your confines grow,
Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe,
That, render'd to the Muse he loves, again
He may enchant the meadows with his strain.
Numa, reclin'd in everlasting ease
Amid the shade of dark embow'ring trees,
Viewing with eyes of unabated fire
His loved Aegeria, shall that strain admire:
So sooth'd, the tumid Tiber shall revere
The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year,
Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein,
And guide them harmless till they meet the main.
poem by William Cowper
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