Sonnet to Youth
Thou youthful masses have much to say and
Tempers impetuous, to stir the pot
Which overflowing boils. Thy churning sands
Fiercely tickle mighty rulers bethought.
Or like tidal wave by storm of nature
Rising above the common eye to see
In desperate lashing, wasted tremor:
Scares the fish, with fruitless inconstancy-
While tired, shrivelled generations forego
The mantle; lulled by peaceful autumnal
Sleep. Cunning snares lurk unseen to bestow
On our either-or choice danger banal:
In one to lose by sheer forgetfulness
Or else paralyze by exuberance.