Never shall these be young again who say that out of the flame of the earth, the sun, the flesh, the autumn bough, out of the dark of tears, the palm of love, the earth behind the plough, out of the winds across the fields of flowers and hay, they will arrest with miser mind each clear and perfect thing. Oh, pity these who walk about like sharp old women, shawled and aproned, fingering the amulet of memory's sum. Let them mark the young who lie on some strange shore within the deep embrace of beauty — who will suddenly rise and laugh and leap into rough golden breakers of the years to come! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: LYMAN KING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DESIRE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON RETROSPECT by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE FRUIT GARDEN PATH by AMY LOWELL IN WALKED BUD WITH A PALETTE by CLARENCE MAJOR THE AWAKENING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |