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Pablo Picasso

Youth has no age.

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Age considers, youth ventures

Age considers, youth ventures

Age visualizes, youth dreams

Age makes theories, youth experiments

Age loves, youth longs

Age sees people, youth sees places

Age knows belongings, youth discovers them

Age pains to gain, youth gains to others' pain

Age has heart, youth has mind

Age is thoughtful, youth is tactful

Age ponders, youth wonders

Age recounts, youth counts

Age is experienced, youth is in experience

Age is cautious, youth dashes

Age floats, youth swims

Age lives, youth still making a living

Age is in touch with termination, youth with determination

Age is confident, youth is competent

Age adds years to living, youth adds life to living

Age is lost in past, youth is drowned in future

Age is grown, youth is crown

Ageless is youth, youthless is age

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Youth Has A Charm

Do rapidly believe in youth and its charm,
An attractive proposition to consider
If one is rejected by it, if it takes you by alarm,
If age has been the actual admonisher.

The crisis of age is caused by the rejection of youth,
It is easy and hard, slow and fast,
And age is splendid and fierce as a dogtooth,
When young children resemble the fighting broadcast.

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Youth and Age

Youth and Age

Oh! Such glorious evening!
Is it melted gold
Poured
Across the skies?
Or
Is it from an artist's
Giant Palette
Splashed so bright?

My spirit bounces
At the enchanting reflection
In the shimmering waters;
At the twitter of the birds
From the swinging branches;
At the colourful flowers
Gently swaying in the breeze.

I dance
To the tune of my mind,
With the bells jingling;
It's soulful music ringing,
I am caught in a trance!


I emerge slowly—
Very slowly—
Only to find
Darkness
Having enveloped me!
Groping,
I shiver and shudder!

Alas! Youth has passed away! !
Age has come to stay!
Hark! Is it the bell jingling?
Nay! It is the death-knell tolling!

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Matthew Arnold

Youth's Agitations

When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence,
From this poor present self which I am now;
When youth has done its tedious vain expense
Of passions that for ever ebb and flow;

Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind,
And breathe more happy in an even clime ?--
Ah no, for then I shall begin to find
A thousand virtues in this hated time!

Then I shall wish its agitations back,
And all its thwarting currents of desire;
Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack,
And call this hurrying fever, generous fire;

And sigh that one thing only has been lent
To youth and age in common--discontent.

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Age

I recall the times
I'd dance on life's delicate toes,
Always believing
The faster I'd live, the more of living I would know -

The divine dove of fearless youth
Was right beside me all the way,
That is until, out of the blue
That fickle friend just up and flew away -

There's always a time to play
And a time to rest,
Lately it's the latter
I enjoy the best -

These days my old pals and I
Can't make it so late drinking from the wild-well,
We end up sleeping all the next day
And feeling like hell -

I used to like
Riding bulls and raising cain,
Driving back roads day and night
And camping out in the rain -

I had my own special ways
And unique charms,
Born riding a horse
And working on a farm -

But, as with all of life
Everything has to change,
There's not one element in any of it
That forever remains the same -

So now I'm a bit less special
And have far fewer charms,
Mostly these days just enjoy thinking gentle in my head
And doing simple work with my two old arms -

A good thought
And a good days work,
Help to heal livings pains
And lifes hurts -

So yea, youth has flown the coop...
It's sad but true;
Honestly though in more ways than one
Age could just be the best thing to ever happen,
for me, and for you -

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Ch 06 On Weakness And Old Age Story 05

The active, graceful, smiling, sweet-tongued youth happened once to be in the circle of our assembly. His heart had been entered by no kind of grief and his lips were scarcely ever closed from laughter. After some time had elapsed, I accidentally met him again and I learned that he had married a wife and begotten children but I saw that the root of merriment had been cut and the roses of his countenance were withered. I asked him how he felt and what his circumstances were. He replied: ‘When I had obtained children I left off childishness.’

Where is youth when age has changed my ringlets?
And the change of time is a sufficient monitor.
When thou art old abstain from puerility.
Leave play and jokes to youths.
Seek not a youth’s hilarity in an old man
For the water gone from the brook returns no more.
When the harvest-time of a field arrives
It will no longer wave in the breeze like a young crop.
The period of youth has departed.
Alas, for those heart-enchanting times.
The force of the lion’s claws is gone.
Now we are satisfied with cheese Eke a leopard.
An old hag had dyed her hair black.
I said to her: ‘O little mother of ancient days,
Thou hast cunningly dyed thy hair but consider
That thy bent back will never be straight.’

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George Meredith

Youth In Memory

Days, when the ball of our vision
Had eagles that flew unabashed to sun;
When the grasp on the bow was decision,
And arrow and hand and eye were one;
When the Pleasures, like waves to a swimmer,
Came heaving for rapture ahead! -
Invoke them, they dwindle, they glimmer
As lights over mounds of the dead.

Behold the winged Olympus, off the mead,
With thunder of wide pinions, lightning speed,
Wafting the shepherd-boy through ether clear,
To bear the golden nectar-cup.
So flies desire at view of its delight,
When the young heart is tiptoe perched on sight.
We meanwhile who in hues of the sick year
The Spring-time paint to prick us for our lost,
Mount but the fatal half way up -
Whereon shut eyes! This is decreed,
For Age that would to youthful heavens ascend,
By passion for the arms' possession tossed,
It falls the way of sighs and hath their end;
A spark gone out to more sepulchral night.
Good if the arrowy eagle of the height
Be then the little bird that hops to feed.

Lame falls the cry to kindle days
Of radiant orb and daring gaze.
It does but clank our mortal chain.
For Earth reads through her felon old
The many-numbered of her fold,
Who forward tottering backward strain,
And would be thieves of treasure spent,
With their grey season soured.
She could write out their history in their thirst
To have again the much devoured,
And be the bud at burst;
In honey fancy join the flow,
Where Youth swims on as once they went,
All choiric for spontaneous glee
Of active eager lungs and thews;
They now bared roots beside the river bent;
Whose privilege themselves to see;
Their place in yonder tideway know;
The current glass peruse;
The depths intently sound;
And sapped by each returning flood
Accept for monitory nourishment
Those worn roped features under crust of mud,
Reflected in the silvery smooth around:
Not less the branching and high singing tree,
A home of nests, a landmark and a tent,
Until their hour for losing hold on ground.
Even such good harvest of the things that flee
Earth offers her subjected, and they choose
Rather of Bacchic Youth one beam to drink,
And warm slow marrow with the sensual wink.
So block they at her source the Mother of the Muse.

Who cheerfully the little bird becomes,
Without a fall, and pipes for peck at crumbs,
May have her dolings to the lightest touch;
As where some cripple muses by his crutch,
Unwitting that the spirit in him sings:
'When I had legs, then had I wings,
As good as any born of eggs,
To feed on all aerial things,
When I had legs!'
And if not to embrace he sighs,
She gives him breath of Youth awhile,
Perspective of a breezy mile,
Companionable hedgeways, lifting skies;
Scenes where his nested dreams upon their hoard
Brooded, or up to empyrean soared:
Enough to link him with a dotted line.
But cravings for an eagle's flight,
To top white peaks and serve wild wine
Among the rosy undecayed,
Bring only flash of shade
From her full throbbing breast of day in night.
By what they crave are they betrayed:
And cavernous is that young dragon's jaw,
Crimson for all the fiery reptile saw
In time now coveted, for teeth to flay,
Once more consume, were Life recurrent May.
They to their moment of drawn breath,
Which is the life that makes the death,
The death that makes ethereal life would bind:
The death that breeds the spectre do they find.
Darkness is wedded and the waste regrets
Beating as dead leaves on a fitful gust,
By souls no longer dowered to climb
Beneath their pack of dust,
Whom envy of a lustrous prime,
Eclipsed while yet invoked, besets,
And dooms to sink and water sable flowers,
That never gladdened eye or loaded bee.
Strain we the arms for Memory's hours,
We are the seized Persephone.
Responsive never to the soft desire
For one prized tune is this our chord of life.
'Tis clipped to deadness with a wanton knife,
In wishes that for ecstasies aspire.
Yet have we glad companionship of Youth,
Elysian meadows for the mind,
Dare we to face deeds done, and in our tomb
Filled with the parti-coloured bloom
Of loved and hated, grasp all human truth
Sowed by us down the mazy paths behind.
To feel that heaven must we that hell sound through:
Whence comes a line of continuity,
That brings our middle station into view,
Between those poles; a novel Earth we see,
In likeness of us, made of banned and blest;
The sower's bed, but not the reaper's rest:
An Earth alive with meanings, wherein meet
Buried, and breathing, and to be.
Then of the junction of the three,
Even as a heart in brain, full sweet
May sense of soul, the sum of music, beat.

Only the soul can walk the dusty track
Where hangs our flowering under vapours black,
And bear to see how these pervade, obscure,
Quench recollection of a spacious pure.
They take phantasmal forms, divide, convolve,
Hard at each other point and gape,
Horrible ghosts! in agony dissolve,
To reappear with one they drape
For criminal, and, Father! shrieking name,
Who such distorted issue did beget.
Accept them, them and him, though hiss thy sweat
Off brow on breast, whose furnace flame
Has eaten, and old Self consumes.
Out of the purification will they leap,
Thee renovating while new light illumes
The dusky web of evil, known as pain,
That heavily up healthward mounts the steep;
Our fleshly road to beacon-fire of brain:
Midway the tameless oceanic brute
Below, whose heave is topped with foam for fruit,
And the fair heaven reflecting inner peace
On righteous warfare, that asks not to cease.

Forth of such passage through black fire we win
Clear hearing of the simple lute,
Whereon, and not on other, Memory plays
For them who can in quietness receive
Her restorative airs: a ditty thin
As note of hedgerow bird in ear of eve,
Or wave at ebb, the shallow catching rays
On a transparent sheet, where curves a glass
To truer heavens than when the breaker neighs
Loud at the plunge for bubbly wreck in roar.
Solidity and bulk and martial brass,
Once tyrants of the senses, faintly score
A mark on pebbled sand or fluid slime,
While present in the spirit, vital there,
Are things that seemed the phantoms of their time;
Eternal as the recurrent cloud, as air
Imperative, refreshful as dawn-dew.
Some evanescent hand on vapour scrawled
Historic of the soul, and heats anew
Its coloured lines where deeds of flesh stand bald.
True of the man, and of mankind 'tis true,
Did we stout battle with the Shade, Despair,
Our cowardice, it blooms; or haply warred
Against the primal beast in us, and flung;
Or cleaving mists of Sorrow, left it starred
Above self-pity slain: or it was Prayer
First taken for Life's cleanser; or the tongue
Spake for the world against this heart; or rings
Old laughter, from the founts of wisdom sprung;
Or clap of wing of joy, that was a throb
From breast of Earth, and did no creature rob:
These quickening live. But deepest at her springs,
Most filial, is an eye to love her young.
And had we it, to see with it, alive
Is our lost garden, flower, bird and hive.
Blood of her blood, aim of her aim, are then
The green-robed and grey-crested sons of men:
She tributary to her aged restores
The living in the dead; she will inspire
Faith homelier than on the Yonder shores,
Abhorring these as mire,
Uncertain steps, in dimness gropes,
With mortal tremours pricking hopes,
And, by the final Bacchic of the lusts
Propelled, the Bacchic of the spirit trusts:
A fervour drunk from mystic hierophants;
Not utterly misled, though blindly led,
Led round fermenting eddies. Faith she plants
In her own firmness as our midway road:
Which rightly Youth has read, though blindly read;
Her essence reading in her toothsome goad;
Spur of bright dreams experience disenchants.
But love we well the young, her road midway
The darknesses runs consecrated clay.
Despite our feeble hold on this green home,
And the vast outer strangeness void of dome,
Shall we be with them, of them, taught to feel,
Up to the moment of our prostrate fall,
The life they deem voluptuously real
Is more than empty echo of a call,
Or shadow of a shade, or swing of tides;
As brooding upon age, when veins congeal,
Grey palsy nods to think. With us for guides,
Another step above the animal,
To views in Alpine thought are they helped on.
Good if so far we live in them when gone!

And there the arrowy eagle of the height
Becomes the little bird that hops to feed,
Glad of a crumb, for tempered appetite
To make it wholesome blood and fruitful seed.
Then Memory strikes on no slack string,
Nor sectional will varied Life appear:
Perforce of soul discerned in mind, we hear
Earth with her Onward chime, with Winter Spring.
And ours the mellow note, while sharing joys
No more subjecting mortals who have learnt
To build for happiness on equipoise,
The Pleasures read in sparks of substance burnt;
Know in our seasons an integral wheel,
That rolls us to a mark may yet be willed.
This, the truistic rubbish under heel
Of all the world, we peck at and are filled.

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The youth and the old eat.

The lust of the youth has teeth
With which it bites and eats.
The lust of the old only laps and licks.
The stomachs of the both get full.
13.12.2005

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Lust has no age

As a lad I was browsing among lass.
Growing to adult, I included spinsters.
As a man, my tentacles reached mothers.
Now great grand mother too is appealing.

Selection widens, with age growing
05.02.2000, Palakkad

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Man has no age before woman.

The mind of a woman is
Far older than her age.
She can rise to any height
To match and hold a man
Many decades her senior,
Say at his sixty,
In perfect harmony,
Even being at her twenty.
Only others condemn the disparity.
14.03.2003

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Alas for Youth

Much have I labored, much read o'er
Of Arabic and Persian lore,
Collecting tales unknown and known;
Now two and sixty years are flown.
Regret, and deeper woe of sin,
'Tis all that youth has ended in,
And I with mournful thoughts rehearse
Bu Táhir Khusrawáni's verse:
'I mind me of my youth and sigh,
Alas for youth, for youth gone by!'

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Our Absent Friends

We often speak about
the fun we used to have
whenever we retrace our memories,
remembering our absent friends.

We remember our growing years,
the smiles on our faces
and the funny things we did
with our absent friends.

As the years roll on their way
and age creeps up on us
we sometimes like to reflect
on our long gone absent friends.

The flower of youth has withered,
but the flower never died.
It is still locked in our memory
when we remember our absent friends.

1 July 2012

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Matthew Arnold

Youth’s Agitations

When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence,
From this poor present self which I am now;
When youth has done its tedious vain expense
Of passions that for ever ebb and flow;
Shall I not joy youth’s heats are left behind,
And breathe more happy in an even clime?
Ah no! for then I shall begin to find
A thousand virtues in this hated time.
Then I shall wish its agitations back,
And all its thwarting currents of desire;
Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack,
And call this hurrying fever, generous fire,
And sigh that one thing only has been lent
To youth and age in common—discontent.

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A little kid

I wished to be little kid
Mother’s hand to feed
Father to lift with strong hand
Brother to throw me in open sand

To stand up on feet with great courage
Little steps forward but unable to manage
Desire to grow fast with total disregard to age
Still safe under shed but not meant to be in cage

It is safe world for all times to come
Everybody to shake hand with warm welcome
All needs to be met at short notice
I felt it amusing and very nice

To run after mother step by step
To be pushed in corner with tying of trap
No nuisance of any kind simple tolerated
Simple movements revealed and narrated

Youth has lost al its charm
Child days were very warm
It has its own charismatic value
You get everything even when not due

I would love to live again
As child to be with family main
What a days to be spent with complete joy?
it was nice to spent it with different toys

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Universal

‘Universelle:
She is youth, she has no age.
She sees everything, she judges nothing.
She is innocent, she is powerful.
She comes from the past,
She is the future.’


Unrecognized though foreordained,
nought losing yet to all as lost,
innocent, though counting cost,
vast as the Past, as Future chained
eternally to Fate’s fire-frost
rich as we shall be we’ve remained.

Unique and common, in between
night’s sighs, dawn’s longings, scarce serene;
we float here, there, through dreams’ insight.
Although the strings stay out of sight
Chance intertwines lives, sets the scene
which spins round Time’s wheel infinite.

Game gambol gamble plays roulette
with Cause, Effect, would hedge its bet,
but all too often intervenes
the wild card held by Time who’s seen
to pull those strings till all forget,
till all’s forgotten, both ‘what was’, what might have been...

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To A Friend of My Youth

We met in childhood—careless met,
Nor wept to think that we must sever;
We parted with no fond regret—
No tear lest we should part forever.

Our souls had not commingled then;
The wreath of Friendship had not bound us;
We knew not we should meet again,—
And yet our parting did not wound us.

Again we met—long years have flown,
The sun of youth has risen o'er us,
And friends we loved have smiled and gone,
And changing scenes have pass'd before us.—

We meet!—but not again to part,
Without one transient pang of mourning;
Oh no! the burning tear would start,
At thought of joys no more returning.

For we have stray'd at silent eve,
Beneath the crescent brightly beaming,
And social converse loved to weave,
Around the warm hearth cheerful gleaming.

We yet may part—in distant land
Afar to roam we know not whither—
But still be Friendship's flowery band
The wreath that twines our souls together.

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Just Half The Man I Used To Be

Just half the man I used to be,
Though now I'm twice as old,
With almost all life's history,
A fragment left untold...
And on reflection, lots undone,
Mistakes, mistakes galore,
Yet I'll give credit to God's Son,
He's closer than before...

Just half the man I used to be,
My youth has come and gone
And with old age, infirmity,
Weak legs to walk upon...
With walking sticks as faithful friends,
We now stand side-by-side
And as this chapter gently ends,
By faith, I know I tried...

Just half the man I used to be,
A fraction still remains,
God's hourglass is all I see,
As time steals tiny grains...
What should I do beyond my prayers,
To make these days worthwhile?
Such that God's pleased with my affairs
And they bring Him a smile?

Just half the man I used to be,
What great thing can I do?
Then suddenly, this truth hit me,
I know... I'll pray for you!
Be twice the man that you could be!
Or person that you are!
That way, you won't turn out like me...
Who knows? You could go far!


Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.

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While Yet we may

Ancient, wrinkled dames and jealous -
They whom joyless Age downcasts -
And the sere, gray-bearded fellows
Who would fain re-live their pasts -
These, the ancients, grimly tell us:
'Vows are vain, and no love lasts.'


Fleeting years fulfil Fate's sentence,
Eyes must dim, and hair turn gray,
Age bring wrinkles, p'rhaps repentance;
Youth shall quickly hie away,
And that time when youth has went hence,
We - and love - have had our day.


Let the world, and fuming, fretting,
Busy worldlings pass us by,
Bent on piles of lucre getting -
They shall lose it when they die;
Past and future, sweet! forgetting -
Seize the present ere it fly.


Your bright eyes are soft and smiling,
Pouting lips are moist and red,
And your whispers wondrous wiling -
Surely they would quick the dead -
And these hours they're now beguiling,
All too hasty will have fled.


Years may bring a dole of sorrow,
Time enough to fast and pray,
From the present pleasures borrow,
Let the distant future pay;
Leave the penance for the morrow,
Sweetheart! love and laugh to-day.

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A Song Of Success

Ho! we were strong, we were swift, we were brave.
Youth was a challenge, and Life was a fight.
All that was best in us gladly we gave,
Sprang from the rally, and leapt for the height.
Smiling is Love in a foam of Spring flowers:
Harden our hearts to him -- on let us press!
Oh, what a triumph and pride shall be ours!
See where it beacons, the star of success!

Cares seem to crowd on us -- so much to do;
New fields to conquer, and time's on the wing.
Grey hairs are showing, a wrinkle or two;
Somehow our footstep is losing its spring.
Pleasure's forsaken us, Love ceased to smile;
Youth has been funeralled; Age travels fast.
Sometimes we wonder: is it worth while?
There! we have gained to the summit at last.

Aye, we have triumphed! Now must we haste,
Revel in victory . . . why! what is wrong?
Life's choicest vintage is flat to the taste --
Are we too late? Have we laboured too long?
Wealth, power, fame we hold . . . ah! but the truth:
Would we not give this vain glory of ours
For one mad, glad year of glorious youth,
Life in the Springtide, and Love in the flowers.

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The Idle Son

Young Benjamin left school this year
And stepped right in a job;
And he starts in hope of a life career,
Like his eldest brother, Bob.
But Sam, the lad who came between,
Born in the fateful year 'thirteen,
Still vainly seeks a place;
And the mark of his fate, too plainly seen,
Dawns in his listless face.

For Sam was born in a black year,
In the year of the world's black rage
To rob his youth of childish mirth;
And another curse was on the earth
In the year he came of age.
War and depression, this grim twain,
Have clouded life for a bright young brain.

Life smiles for Benjamin and Bob,
Each lucky in his age;
But the count of years falls ill to rob
Same of his heritage:
Too old for a youth's apprenticeship,
Untrained, too young for a man's firm grip,
Tho' a man in stature grown,
He lives to see his chances slip,
Thro' no fault of his own.

For Sam was born in a black year,
In a black year came from school.
But we who know past years of ease
Hold stern responsibilities
Ere his youthful ardours cool.
Ours is the duty, ours the task
To yield what youth has right to ask.

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