Everything that lives --
Bush and tree, in leaf or blossom,
Bird and man, from depth of bosom,
Must in springtime gaily sing.
Yet what spring is, all it gives,
Only years, long years, reveal it;
Only age can truly feel it.
Youth is its own spring.
Youth? Age? The difference? Listen, please:
Youth is a curable disease.
"Of age, do you believe all you've been told"
"Not yet. This is the first time I've grown old."
"Now charge," the young men cried, "both foot and
"On whom?" the old men asked. "On you, of course,"
When I was young, I scorned the rule of age.
Now I am old, does that make me a sage?
And yet, if we are born, all things thought out
And nothing learn, what is it all about?