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.