The speaker in “My Youth” looks back on a youth that felt like old age: long, tired, and weighed down by too many cares. He had no energy for song or joy, and even his “moulting days”—a bird’s season of losing feathers and falling silent—came early. The mood is rueful but not bitter. Then the poem turns. Now, in life’s prime, his soul opens “in flower,” and his singing power arrives late, like a robin’s late song. The final lines hold quiet relief and wonder: he was “not born to joy” until this late hour. It is a poem about delayed happiness, about flourishing after hardship, and the strange gratitude of finding youthfulness in later years.
My Youth — Summary
My youth was my old age, Weary and long; It had too many cares To think of song; My moulting days all came When I was young. Now, in life's prime, my soul Comes out in flower; Late, as with Robin, comes My singing power; I was not born to joy Till this late hour.