Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye! There’s naught on Earth above ye Thou purling bird uncaged That never wilt grow aged, To whom each day is giving Increase of joyous living! Soft words to thee are spoken, For thee strong vows are broken, All loves and lovers cluster, To bask them in thy lustre. Ah, girlhood, pout and dimple, Half hid beneath the wimple! Ah, boyhood, blithe and cruel, Whose heat doth need no fuel, No help of wine and spices And frigid Eld’s devices! All pleasant things ye find you, And to your sweet selves bind you. For you alone the motion Of brave ships on the ocean; All stars for you are shining, All wreaths your foreheads twining; All joys, your joys decreeing, Are portions of your being,— All fairest sights your features, Ye selfish, soulful creatures! Sing me no more distiches Of glory, wisdom, riches; Tell me no beldame’s story Of wisdom, wealth, and glory! To Youth these are a wonder,— To Age a corpse-light under The tomb with rusted portal Of that which seemed immortal. I, too, in Youth’s dear fetter, Will love my foeman better,— Ay, though his ill I study,— So he be young and ruddy, Than comrade true and golden, So he be waxen olden. Ah, winsome Youth, stay by us! I prithee, do not fly us! Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye! There’s naught on Earth above ye! STANZAS FOR MUSIC. (FROM AN UNFINISHED DRAMA.) Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word; Close, close in my arms thou art clinging; Alone for my ear thou art singing A song which no stranger hath heard: But afar from me yet, like a bird, Thy soul, in some region unstirred, On its mystical circuit is winging. Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own; Henceforth we are mingled forever: But in vain, all in vain, I endeavor— Though round thee my garlands are thrown, And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone— To master the spell that alone My hold on thy being can sever. Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me! But thy soul, when I strive to be near it— The innermost fold of thy spirit— Is as far from my grasp, is as free, As the stars from the mountain-tops be, As the pearl, in the depths of the sea, From the portionless king that would wear it. THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS. Whither away, Robin, Whither away? Is it through envy of the maple-leaf, Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast, Thou wilt not stay? The summer days were long, yet all too brief The happy season thou hast been our guest: Whither away? Whither away, Bluebird, Whither away? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, The hue of May. Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring? Whither away?