A young Apollo, golden haired,
Stands dreaming on the verge of strife,
Magnificently unprepared
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A young Apollo, golden haired,
Stands dreaming on the verge of strife,
Magnificently unprepared
For the long littleness of life.

Trouble is, kids feel they have to shock their elders and each generation grows up into something harder to shock.

Trouble is, kids feel they have to shock their elders and each generation grows up into something harder to shock.

I was between
A man and a boy, A hobble-de-hoy,
A fat, little, punchy concern of sixteen.

I was between
A man and a boy, A hobble-de-hoy,
A fat, little, punchy concern of sixteen.

Every street has two sides, the shady side and the sunny. When
two men shake hands and part, mark read more

Every street has two sides, the shady side and the sunny. When
two men shake hands and part, mark which of the two takes the
sunny side; he will be the younger man of the two.

Youth is to all the glad reason of life; but often only by what
it hopes, not by what read more

Youth is to all the glad reason of life; but often only by what
it hopes, not by what it attains, or what it escapes.

It is not possible for civilization to flow backwards while there is youth in the world. Youth may be headstrong, read more

It is not possible for civilization to flow backwards while there is youth in the world. Youth may be headstrong, but it will advance it allotted length.

Youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of read more

Youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of the world. But the power of hoping through everything, the knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the middle-aged.

Youth is the first victim of war; the first fruit of peace. It takes 20 years or more of peace read more

Youth is the first victim of war; the first fruit of peace. It takes 20 years or more of peace to make a man; it takes only 20 seconds of war to destroy him.

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
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Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away: poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene
That men call age, and those who would have been
Their sons, they gave their immortality.