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Commuter Poet Apr 2016
Praise the youth!
Give them the space
And they will lead the way

Youth are respectful
Kind and warm
Praise the youth!
Praise the youth!

Youth do not complain
They know how to work
And then they know
How to play
Praise the youth!
Praise the youth!

Youth overcome shyness
And make friends quickly
They solve problems
Without ego
Praise the youth!
Praise the youth!

The future is bright
Thanks to the youth
Praise the youth!
Praise the youth!
10th April 2016
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The 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,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o’er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering’s Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy’s brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
jeffrey conyers  Dec 2013
Youth
jeffrey conyers Dec 2013
Youth.
It's that culture that people blame.
Youth.
It's that unit that causes the most pain.

At least to the adults.
They need some to blame.

Visualize that the skip adults mistakes.
By going by the age of the group.
Adults, constantly on the news more than youth.
They just don't report that truth.

Youth.
Too much time upon their hands.
Least according to the law enforcement.


But crime is seen more created by those over twenty one.
Youth.
That group every adult has played apart of at one time.
Been accused of everything under the sun.

Youth rebellious.
Youth pregnancy.
Youth hatred.
Youth irresponsibility.
Youth at the center of various things.
According to those older.
But not any more wiser.

Youth.
It's hard been young.
When the innocent get group with everyone.

But those that lives according to common sense rules.
Know many negative comments isn't addressed to you.
The youth



Youth is weird,
Somewhat interesting.
An adult pop rock mix
With child soda pop.

Youth is Coca-Cola,
Marlboro, whiskey and energy,
The eternal monologue of life,
ID number, property tax and Netflix.

Youth is John Lennon,
Che, Fidel and Hendrix,
Contemporary history,
ancient and medieval history.

Youth is pants ripped jeans,
Popsicle, lollipop, painted face,
Chicle, coffee and french fries,
Point G, miniskirt and condoms.

Youth is the Dalai Lama,
Techno, rave and rasta,
Drugs, drops and guitar,
Punk, samba and hopefully that-fall.

Youth is the opposite of the opposite,
It's a Friday at midnight,
Mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise,
X-salad, ham and cheese sandwich and X-men.

Youth is D-Day,
Vietnam, Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
Testosterone, Woodstock and Waterloo,
Afghanistan, TPM and MTV.

Youth is a pressure cooker,
Isis, Syria, sukiyaki,
Anonymous, Al Qaeda, rice and beans,
Genesis, Revelation and mint candy.

Youth is weird,
Somewhat interesting.
An adult pop rock mix
With child soda pop.
What is youth?
Timothy Roesch Mar 2014
Oh the cringing  demon of eternal youth,
******* away promise and hard won truth.
I see far more than ***, lingering, in her eyes
I see, instead, the milk teeth of youthful lies,
of forever and today, hopes and screams
replacing tomorrows, frayed at the seams.

Oh, mere ***, be gone, you sordid troll!
Crawl yourself back in your hole.
If ‘tis *** you brought to this trapped piece of light
then speak to your own soul and leave me a bite
of the apple she does not offer
and the delights you think her youth will proffer.

I have no time to dance to your twisted tune
of youth over too fast and maturity too soon!
What stinks more of your *******;
her stretched, prolonged, aging youth or back bared, partial  ******?

I giggle as I consider her Eve-like dreams
of bitten apples and grander things.
And God said, let there be light.
Is that truly all He said when he banished the night?

Maybe she is wet from being born.
From demon Youth’s desperate grasp she is torn
and into the world, for a moment, she is cashed;
back bared and ready to be lashed
by the ‘cruel’ reality we keep from youth…
…like bronzed, baby booties and baby’s lost tooth.

Maybe, coquettishly, she glances ahead,
away from the bonds of youth’s birthing bed;
not, as you apparently dream, toward some sordid affair
you see in bared skin and strands of dampened hair!

There is beauty in her eyes, it is true,
the beauty of youth’s first, full faced view
of tomorrow and tomorrows again…
Exactly how long do you think, she should remain a youth, then?
Oh the Apple that lingers past ripe upon a tree,
Snakeless, Eve-less, unchosen, unbitten for an eternity.
Shall we trap, virginal, in iron cages of our blind, stupid lust
the false innocence of youth only tears and death can rust?

Foolish, foolish Adam and blind, impregnable Eve; is *** all you can ever see?
I can peer past your layers and layers and layers of false, bitter modesty.
If you see ******* then know this, before you atone:
You bring that demon wherever you go and it is yours and yours alone.
Created while viewing the famous Miley Cyrus photograph of a young Miley in only a towel.
Megan  Sep 2017
Youth.
Megan Sep 2017
We are the kids
Who want to feel alive
We want to feel liberated and beautiful and young.
We are the sad youth.
Of cutting
And anti-depressants
Praying for some one to save us
From ourselves,
When our minds are dark
And we are alone.
We are the wild youth.
Of late nights
And city lights
With our lungs filled with smoke
And adrenaline pumping through our veins.
We are the lonely youth.
Where no one knows our thoughts
And no one understands
But God, how we wish they would.
We are the hipster indie youth.
We don't do it for the aesthetic
Because this is who we are
We live our lives in black white
And sometimes, someone beautiful
Adds in the most vibrant color.
We are the wandering youth.
Searching, exploring, running, grasping
At whatever we can
That make us see
There is hope
And wonder
And brilliance in the world.
We are the youth of today
We are different
But we are human.
We are the youth.
And even if our youth is fading,
The memories we made aren't.
I hope that when you read this, you remember moments that made you feel sad, happy, in love and alive. I really hope you do.
Daniel Bauer Nov 2011
The world is full of hatred and spite,
It may come as a surprise
Oh innocent youth,
But allow me to reprise,
The world is full of hatred and spite.

Oh innocent youth,

Change it, we must,
In the way we see fit.
Take charge of the reigns,
And demolish the parts
causing the most pain.

Ignorance and Arrogance
Are the Gods of the day,
Lack of wanting or caring
For the power of knowledge,
Content to be slaves,
Lost in their ways.

Oh tainted youth,

How far will this path take us?
Destroying our home, our friendships, our lives,
Our bodies, our minds, our dreams,
Crushed and broken,
Until nothing is left,
Nothing except subservient beings.

Oh enraged youth,

How do we change the events
set into motion,
Call me a radical but I have such a notion.
Seek knowledge, peace,
Love, and understanding.

In these virtues you will find
The mind’s true elation,
Then, and only then,
Will you break free
From the grip of preoccupation.

Oh enlightened youth,

When and how will our voices be heard?
Whenever it is, we break ranks from the herd.

It will require us all,
Brothers, sisters, blacks, and whites,
No group left uncalled,
For fear that upon deaf ears
our efforts should fall,

Oh empowered youth,

With these tools we must fashion,
Our revolution of choice,
With chests out and heads high,
We will make sure they hear,
Our unified voice.

For without the power of us,
There will be no change,
But the power of us
Is a force to reckon,
Yet we must keep our path straight,
And let it not derange.

Oh complacent youth,

I fear that change should not come,
Soon enough, or yet at all,
Unless we stand tall, and call,
For those in their hall,
To Bring Down their Wall.

When we treat all equal,
With love and respect,
We will have won.
But what do you expect?

Oh innocent youth,

This will not happen, it cannot happen,
The world is filled with Hatred and Spite,
And I fear we will gaze eternally,
At our cause, fading,
Into that great twilight.
Ben Holders Jul 2013
Forget what you learned in the night  

The youth do not have it right

The wine plays tricks on young mortals

In the late moonlight

When reason was lost  

And caveman instincts run wild

And I think I want to rest awhile

But the youth will not rest

And the youth will scream you awake

And the youth will give you drugs

And the youth will fill you with worth

And the youth will leave you be

Only when the youth has burned you up

My body is on fire

And the youth dance in my light

The youth came last night

Like all nights, and they begged to dance in my light

I begged to dance in their light
LiviKawa  May 2014
Reckless
LiviKawa May 2014
We call ourselves the reckless youth
Trying to figure out where we are and where we are going
With lyrics tucked under our tongues that say more than our voices ever will
Our sleepless nights that cause purple crescents to appear under our eyes
And the words we replay in our head of past days
We call ourselves the reckless youth
Looking at the world through maroon eyes
With empty bottles that we hold in our warm sweaty palms
And the sheet-ropes we make to climb out of the windows at 3 in the morning
With the uncertainty of tomorrow
Whether we will wake up inside of our beds smelling of lavender
Or in a field sprawled out among other teenage bodies reeking of beer
With the memories of Christmas lights that are over-expired
And of the kisses that won't mean a thing to anyone when the sun starts to wake us up with massive headaches
Because worthless kisses are now more valuable to us
Making up the ones our parents never gave
We call ourselves the reckless youth
Because our generation is made up of lost souls due to the words spat out by our foes
And the scars that line the inside and outside of our bodies
The scars that we hide behind smiles and stories that fill our heads
But be careful of standing too close
You might catch our disease
That comes with the temptation of stealing out to the flowers that grow around campfires
And the reminiscences of lust still stuck to the grass
Where the lingering of fingers that caress the parts of us that are hidden from society
We call ourselves the reckless youth
Our lives making up pages in a novel consisting of skinny jeans and over-sized sweatshirts
Of promises of better days that have yet to come
And the sun that we are still trying to see through broken sunglasses
The tan lines from the 7 am runs because the voices in our heads aren't going away
We call ourselves the reckless youth
Addicted to staring at computer screens and only turning away to measure our waists
And when there is a constant fire outside our door
We will stay inside always trying to create something new
A life of fantasy
A life to burn all of our memories of reality
Because we are misused
Misjudged
We call ourselves reckless
Not because we are not wise
But because our wisdom comes from tidal waves of people crashing upon us tell us we are not good enough
But the flowers in our hair are worth more then the diamonds that line her skirt
We call ourselves the reckless youth
When the adults tell us no
But we insist on saying yes
When we are not afraid of death
We are afraid of living
And at this pace we will be dead before we live
Maybe we are wasting our time
But time is a luxury we just cannot afford
So we will go out
Stripping our bodies of the loosely fitted clothes and dipping out naked frames under cold water
Forgetting what made us tired
What made us upset with the wilting pedals of all the things we did wrong
All the regrets we cannot take back
We call ourselves the reckless youth
Who watch the stars well past midnight
And look for the familiar sight of home within the walls of our imagination
Where reality slips into a blur of pink and orange clouds
We don't merely call ourselves the *reckless youth

Because we decided to escape society and reality rather than ourselves
We *are
the reckless youth
Because we chose to be wise
To be strong
To be unique
*To be infinite
haha long >.<
LiviKawa Mar 2016
We call ourselves the reckless youth
Trying to figure out where we are and where we’re planning on going
With lyrics tucked under our tongues that say more than our voices ever will
Where sleepless nights cause purple crescents to appear under our eyes
And replay words from past days through and through our heads

We call ourselves the reckless youth
Looking at the world through maroon eyes
With empty alcohol bottles that we clench onto with our warm sticky palms
And the sheet-ropes we make to climb out of the windows at 3 in the morning
Dealing with the voices and uncertainties of tomorrow
Wondering whether we will wake up inside of our beds smelling of lavender
Or in a field sprawled out among other teenage bodies reeking of beer

We call ourselves the reckless youth
With the memories of Christmas lights that are over-expired
That brought kisses that won't mean a thing to anyone as morning brings massive headaches
Because worthless kisses are now more valuable to us
Then the ones our parents now forget to give

We call ourselves the reckless youth
Because our generation is made up of lost souls
And scars that line the insides and outsides of our bodies
The same scars that we hide behind smiles and stories that swim in our heads
This is our disease and it is contagious
Coming with the temptation of sneaking out to the flowers that grow around campfires
And the reminiscences of lust still stuck to the grass like dew
Ghosts of the lingering fingers that caressed the parts we’ve hidden from society

We call ourselves the reckless youth
Our lives making up pages in a novel that consist of skinny jeans and over-sized sweatshirts
Of the promise that we’ll see better days
And the sun that is still trying to be shielded with broken sunglasses
Tan lines from 7 am runs because the voices in our heads are way too loud

We call ourselves the reckless youth
Addicted to computer screens and turning away only to measure our waists
Ignoring the constant fire outside our door
Deciding to stay inside a burning house instead of running to safety
Here we continue to try and create something new
A life of fantasy where there will be use of different flames
To destroy all of the memories of reality
Because we are misused
Misjudged

We call ourselves reckless
Not because we aren’t wise
But because our wisdom comes in different forms
Like the tidal waves of people crashing upon us
Who tell us we are not good enough
And the words that continue to build inside our bones
Yet we know that these flowers braided in our hair
Will forever be worth more than the diamonds that line their clothes

We call ourselves the reckless youth
When the adults tell us no
But we insist on saying yes
Because it’s not that we are afraid of death
We are afraid of living
Here in this pace where we’ll be dead
Far before we have the chance to live

And maybe we are wasting our time
Though time is a luxury we cannot yet afford
So we will continue to climb out windows
Sneak through back doors
Where we then strip our bodies of the loosely fitted clothes
Quickly dipping our naked frames under the cold water
Forgetting what has made us tired
What made us upset
Which come with the wilting petals of all the things we did wrong
All the regrets we cannot take back

We call ourselves the reckless youth
When we watch the black sky and its stars well past midnight
And look for the familiar sight of home within the walls of our imagination
Where reality slips into a blur of pink and orange clouds

We don’t call ourselves reckless
Because we decided to escape reality, ourselves and society
And blow out clouds of ***** air from deep within our lungs
Or burn holes in our throats from fermentation
We are the reckless youth
Because we chose to be wise
To be strong
To be infinite
This was my first ever poem, so i went back and revised it ((: super long but its one of my favs i guess
“I cannot but remember such things were,
  And were most dear to me.”
  ‘Macbeth’

  [”That were most precious to me.”
  ‘Macbeth’, act iv, sc. 3.]


When slow Disease, with all her host of Pains,
Chills the warm tide, which flows along the veins;
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring;
Not to the aching frame alone confin’d,
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind:
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe,
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow,
With Resignation wage relentless strife,
While Hope retires appall’d, and clings to life.
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour,
Remembrance sheds around her genial power,
Calls back the vanish’d days to rapture given,
When Love was bliss, and Beauty form’d our heaven;
Or, dear to youth, pourtrays each childish scene,
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been.
As when, through clouds that pour the summer storm,
The orb of day unveils his distant form,
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain
And dimly twinkles o’er the watery plain;
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The Sun of Memory, glowing through my dreams,
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays,
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,
Which still recurs, unlook’d for and unsought;
My soul to Fancy’s fond suggestion yields,
And roams romantic o’er her airy fields.
Scenes of my youth, develop’d, crowd to view,
To which I long have bade a last adieu!
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes;
Friends lost to me, for aye, except in dreams;
Some, who in marble prematurely sleep,
Whose forms I now remember, but to weep;
Some, who yet urge the same scholastic course
Of early science, future fame the source;
Who, still contending in the studious race,
In quick rotation, fill the senior place!
These, with a thousand visions, now unite,
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight.

IDA! blest spot, where Science holds her reign,
How joyous, once, I join’d thy youthful train!
Bright, in idea, gleams thy lofty spire,
Again, I mingle with thy playful quire;
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game,
Unchang’d by time or distance, seem the same;
Through winding paths, along the glade I trace
The social smile of every welcome face;
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy or woe,
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,
Our feuds dissolv’d, but not my friendship past,—
I bless the former, and forgive the last.
Hours of my youth! when, nurtur’d in my breast,
To Love a stranger, Friendship made me blest,—
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth,
When every artless ***** throbs with truth;
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign,
And check each impulse with prudential rein;
When, all we feel, our honest souls disclose,
In love to friends, in open hate to foes;
No varnish’d tales the lips of youth repeat,
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit;
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen’d years,
Matured by age, the garb of Prudence wears:
When, now, the Boy is ripen’d into Man,
His careful Sire chalks forth some wary plan;
Instructs his Son from Candour’s path to shrink,
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think;
Still to assent, and never to deny—
A patron’s praise can well reward the lie:
And who, when Fortune’s warning voice is heard,
Would lose his opening prospects for a word?
Although, against that word, his heart rebel,
And Truth, indignant, all his ***** swell.

  Away with themes like this! not mine the task,
From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask;
Let keener bards delight in Satire’s sting,
My Fancy soars not on Detraction’s wing:
Once, and but once, she aim’d a deadly blow,
To hurl Defiance on a secret Foe;
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Warn’d by some friendly hint, perchance, retir’d,
With this submission all her rage expired.
From dreaded pangs that feeble Foe to save,
She hush’d her young resentment, and forgave.
Or, if my Muse a Pedant’s portrait drew,
POMPOSUS’ virtues are but known to few:
I never fear’d the young usurper’s nod,
And he who wields must, sometimes, feel the rod.
If since on Granta’s failings, known to all
Who share the converse of a college hall,
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,
’Tis past, and thus she will not sin again:
Soon must her early song for ever cease,
And, all may rail, when I shall rest in peace.

  Here, first remember’d be the joyous band,
Who hail’d me chief, obedient to command;
Who join’d with me, in every boyish sport,
Their first adviser, and their last resort;
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant’s frown,
Or all the sable glories of his gown;
Who, thus, transplanted from his father’s school,
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule—
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise,
The dear preceptor of my early days,
PROBUS, the pride of science, and the boast—
To IDA now, alas! for ever lost!
With him, for years, we search’d the classic page,
And fear’d the Master, though we lov’d the Sage:
Retir’d at last, his small yet peaceful seat
From learning’s labour is the blest retreat.
POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair;
POMPOSUS governs,—but, my Muse, forbear:
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant’s lot,
His name and precepts be alike forgot;
No more his mention shall my verse degrade,—
To him my tribute is already paid.

  High, through those elms with hoary branches crown’d
Fair IDA’S bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favour’d seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter’d groups, each favour’d haunt pursue,
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush’d with his rays, beneath the noontide Sun,
In rival bands, between the wickets run,
Drive o’er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent’s cool waves in limpid currents stray,
While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others, again, a pert and lively crew,
Some rough and thoughtless stranger plac’d in view,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes;
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:
“’Twas here the gather’d swains for vengeance fought,
And here we earn’d the conquest dearly bought:
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew’d the wild tumultuous fight.”
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th’ allotted hour of daily sport is o’er,
And Learning beckons from her temple’s door.
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall:
There, deeply carv’d, behold! each Tyro’s name
Secures its owner’s academic fame;
Here mingling view the names of Sire and Son,
The one long grav’d, the other just begun:
These shall survive alike when Son and Sire,
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire;
Perhaps, their last memorial these alone,
Denied, in death, a monumental stone,
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds, that hide their nameless grave.
And, here, my name, and many an early friend’s,
Along the wall in lengthen’d line extends.
Though, still, our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obeyed their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule, the little Tyrants of an hour;
Though sometimes, with the Tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary Winter’s eve away;
“And, thus, our former rulers stemm’d the tide,
And, thus, they dealt the combat, side by side;
Just in this place, the mouldering walls they scaled,
Nor bolts, nor bars, against their strength avail’d;
Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell,
And, here, he falter’d forth his last farewell;
And, here, one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold POMPOSUS bravely staid at home;”
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive:
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.

  Dear honest race! though now we meet no more,
One last long look on what we were before—
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu—
Drew tears from eyes unus’d to weep with you.
Through splendid circles, Fashion’s gaudy world,
Where Folly’s glaring standard waves unfurl’d,
I plung’d to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hop’d was to forget:
Vain wish! if, chance, some well-remember’d face,
Some old companion of my early race,
Advanc’d to claim his friend with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim’d me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of Beauty, (for, alas! I’ve known
What ’tis to bend before Love’s mighty throne;)
The smiles of Beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near:
My thoughts bewilder’d in the fond surprise,
The woods of IDA danc’d before my eyes;
I saw the sprightly wand’rers pour along,
I saw, and join’d again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I trac’d her lofty grove,
And Friendship’s feelings triumph’d over Love.

  Yet, why should I alone with such delight
Retrace the circuit of my former flight?
Is there no cause beyond the common claim,
Endear’d to all in childhood’s very name?
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
To one, who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad, the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee,
A home, a world, a paradise to me.
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a Father’s care;
Can Rank, or e’en a Guardian’s name supply
The love, which glistens in a Father’s eye?
For this, can Wealth, or Title’s sound atone,
Made, by a Parent’s early loss, my own?
What Brother springs a Brother’s love to seek?
What Sister’s gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me, how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond ***** link’d by kindred ties!
Oft, in the progress of some fleeting dream,
Fraternal smiles, collected round me seem;
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of Love will murmur in my rest:
I hear—I wake—and in the sound rejoice!
I hear again,—but, ah! no Brother’s voice.
A Hermit, ’midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone?
Thus, must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear, than IDA’S social band.

  Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends,
Thy name ennobles him, who thus commends:
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise;
The praise is his, who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If Hope anticipate the words of Truth!
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own, upon thy deathless fame:
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest;
Oft have we drain’d the font of ancient lore,
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more;
Yet, when Confinement’s lingering hour was done,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one:
Together we impell’d the flying ball,
Together waited in our tutor’s hall;
Together join’d in cricket’s manly toil,
Or shar’d the produce of the river’s spoil;
Or plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore:
In every element, unchang’d, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.

  Nor, yet, are you forgot, my jocund Boy!
DAVUS, the harbinger of childish joy;
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,
The laughing herald of the harmless pun;
Yet, with a breast of such materials made,
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid;
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel
In Danger’s path, though not untaught to feel.
Still, I remember, in the factious strife,
The rustic’s musket aim’d against my life:
High pois’d in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue:
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of th’ impending blow;
Your arm, brave Boy, arrested his career—
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear;
Disarm’d, and baffled by your conquering hand,
The grovelling Savage roll’d upon the sand:
An act like this, can simple thanks repay?
Or all the labours of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene’er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.

  LYCUS! on me thy claims are justly great:
Thy milder virtues could my Muse relate,
To thee, alone, unrivall’d, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen’d song.
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness, with Athenian wit:
Though yet, in embryo, these perfections shine,
LYCUS! thy father’s fame will soon be thine.
Where Learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope, from genius thus refin’d;
When Time, at length, matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower, above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With Honour’s soul, united beam in thee.

Shall fair EURYALUS, pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung:
What, though one sad dissension bade us part,
That name is yet embalm’d within my heart,
Yet, at the mention, does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound;
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends,—I’ll think, we are so still.
A form unmatch’d in Nature’s partial mould,
A heart untainted, we, in thee, behold:
Yet, not the Senate’s thunder thou shall wield,
Nor seek for glory, in the tented field:
To minds of ruder texture, these be given—
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish’d courts might be thy seat,
But, that thy tongue could never forge deceit:
The courtier’s supple bow, and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast, with indignation, burn,
And, all the glittering snares, to tempt thee, spurn.
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e’er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;—
Ambition’s slave, alone, would toil for more.

  Now last, but nearest, of the social band,
See honest, open, generous CLEON stand;
With scarce one speck, to cloud the pleasing scene,
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day, our studious race begun,
On the same day, our studious race was run;
Thus, side by side, we pass’d our first career,
Thus, side by side, we strove for many a year:
At last, concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer’d in the classic strife:
As Speakers, each supports an equal name,
And crowds allow to both a partial fame:
To soothe a youthful Rival’s early pride,
Though Cleon’s candour would the palm divide,
Yet Candour’s self compels me now to own,
Justice awards it to my Friend alone.

  Oh! Friends regretted, Scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping, she bends o’er pensive Fancy’s urn,
To trace the hours, which never can return;
Yet, with the retrospection loves to dwell,
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twin’d;
When PROBUS’ praise repaid my lyric song,
Or plac’d me higher in the studious throng;
Or when my first harangue receiv’d applause,
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude, to him, my soul possest,
While hope of dawning honours fill’d my breast!
For all my humble fame, to him alone,
The praise is due, who made that fame my own.
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my Muse her noblest strain would give,
The song might perish, but the theme might live.
Yet, why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour’d name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful IDA blest,
It finds an ech
Deeee  May 2016
Youth
Deeee May 2016
Are you smart?
Yes
You don't act like it*

They don't understand.
You know exactly what you're saying, and all you need is for them to understand.
But they refuse to understand.
Refuse to open their minds to the world you speak of.
It's scary, you know. They know.
But they don't understand.
That your choice to venture out and into the risk, the life is a bold choice.
Not a stupid one, like they think.
Your choice to make a life unlike any they have ever experienced.
It is not impulse. Rebellion. Stupidity. Youth.
Maybe it is youth.
But youth as a blessing.
Youth; not childishness.
Youth as a strength. A weapon. A catapult.
To launch you into the life you know to be yours.
They will never understand.
And that is no fault.
You understand.
And that's what counts.
So use your youth as a catapult and your soul as wings to fly.
Out into the world you know.
The life bestowed upon you.

— The End —