Seventeen
Removing hot
boots, we hung them
by laces and crossed
the stone-floored stream
on shocked feet.
Work-weary as we
were, we stopped
to see maple finery
skip past wet knees.
Poems on the topic: youth
Poems on the topic “youth” on Poets.by.
Ninety-Eight
When did she
become, and so
suddenly,
this woman, talking
of young men?
Toy Lover
You ask advice as
if I were a parent not a lover.
With calculating
eyes, you talk of career goals not love.
Like an autumn wind
bending trees, a chaos of leaves, you rush
to change the world
questioning how experience is gained
and ask, is youth a
barrier to life. I answer, is age
a fence to living.
And think of all the things we have in common
and all the things we don't.
Loud Youth
There is a great, sweet golden bell in me —
It has a chime of flame, a flame so bright
I seem to walk forever in its light,
As gods do in their immortality.
Such a tremendous joy would come to be.
That chains would turn to wreaths of blowing white,
And crutches drop for wings to flare in flight,
If I could ring the bell that is in me.
Oh if I could ! The stars would shake — and suns
And moons collapse, and the hollow ways of death
Fill with enough of echo to revive
Such restlessness among the saintly ones,
That the oldest of them all would catch his breath
Remembering what it was to be alive!
Spring
Once when my life was young,
I, too, with Spring's bright face
By mine, walked softly along,
Pace to his pace.
Then burned his crimson may,
Like a clear flame outspread,
Arching our happy way:
Then would he shed
Strangely from his wild face
Wonderful light on me--
Like hounds that keen in chase
Their quarry see.
Oh, sorrow now to know
What shafts, what keenness cold
His are to pierce me through,
Now that I'm old.
Young Beauty
When at each door the ruffian winds
Have laid a dying man to groan,
And filled the air on winter nights
With cries of infants left alone;
And every thing that has a bed
Will sigh for others that have none:
On such a night, when bitter cold,
Young Beauty, full of love thoughts sweet,
Can redden in her looking-glass;
With but one gown on, in bare feet,
She from her own reflected charms
Can feel the joy of summer's heat.
My Youth
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.
A Song
I thought no more was needed
Youth to prolong
Than dumb-bell and foil
To keep the body young.
Oh, who could have foretold
That the heart grows old?
Though I have many words,
What woman's satisfied,
I am no longer faint
Because at her side?
Oh, who could have foretold
That the heart grows old?
I have not lost desire
But the heart that I had,
I thought 'twould burn my body
Laid on the death-bed.
The Young Man's Song
I whispered, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough;'
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
Oh, love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away,
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
Friends
Now must I these three praise--
Three women that have wrought
What joy is in my days;
One that no passing thought,
Nor those unpassing cares,
No, not in these fifteen
Many times troubled years,
Could ever come between
Heart and delighted heart;
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.
A Memory of Youth
The moments passed as at a play,
I had the wisdom love brings forth;
I had my share of mother wit
And yet for all that I could say,
And though I had her praise for it,
A cloud blown from the cut-throat north
Suddenly hid love's moon away.
Believing every word I said
I praised her body and her mind
Till pride had made her eyes grow bright,
And pleasure made her cheeks grow red,
And vanity her footfall light,
Yet we, for all that praise, could find
Nothing but darkness overhead.
We sat as silent as a stone,
We knew, though she'd not said a word,
Broadway
This is the quiet hour; the theaters
Have gathered in their crowds, and steadily
The million lights blaze on for few to see,
Robbing the sky of stars that should be hers.
A woman waits with bag and shabby furs,
A somber man drifts by, and only we
Pass up the street unwearied, warm and free,
For over us the olden magic stirs.
Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights
We live a little ere the charm is spent;
This night is ours, of all the golden nights,
The pavement an enchanted palace floor,
And Youth the player on the viol, who sent
A strain of music thru an open door.
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