Quotes About Youth

I pray—for fashion's word is outAnd prayer comes round again—That I may seem, though I die old,A foolish, passionate man.

That toil of growing up;The ignominy of boyhood; the distressOf boyhood changing into man;The unfinished man and his pain.

What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?

Speech after long silence; it is right,All other lovers being estranged or dead…That we descant and yet again descantUpon the supreme theme of Art and Song:Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; youngWe loved each other and were ignorant.

What shall I do for pretty girlsNow my old bawd is dead?

I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.

Wine comes in at the mouthAnd love comes in at the eye;That's all we shall know for truthBefore we grow old and die.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

The Land of Faery,Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold,Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

That is no country for old men. The youngIn one another's arms, birds in the trees—Those dying generations—at their song,The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer longWhatever is begotten, born, and dies.Caught in that sensual music all neglectMonuments of unaging intellect.

Much did I rage when young,Being by the world oppressed,But now with flattering tongueIt speeds the parting guest.

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her did not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed half awake and half asleep, Until she came into the Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. And she is still there, busied with a dance Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.

Politics How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms!

Who Goes With Fergus? Who will go drive with Fergus now, And pierce the deep wood's woven shade, And dance upon the level shore? Young man, lift up your russet brow, And lift your tender eyelids, maid, And brood on hopes and fear no more. And no more turn aside and brood Upon love's bitter mystery; For Fergus rules the brazen cars, And rules the shadows of the wood, And the white breast of the dim sea And all dishevelled wandering stars.

The land of fairy, where nobody gets old and godly and grave, where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue

The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.

The Coming of Wisdom with Time Though leaves are many, the root is one; Through all the lying days of my youth I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun; Now I may wither into the truth.

Before I am old I shall have written him one Poem maybe as cold And passionate as the dawn.

My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

but for the Girl Writing A Letter these things don't matter, she's got a beer in her free hand, she's on the road, she's real and she's in love.

I view the tea-drinking as a destroyer of health, an enfeebler of the frome, an engender of effeminacy and laziness, a debaucher of youth and maker of misery for old age