With the Young
Our struggles with the world, I know,
Are blessings in disguise.
No honors that elsewhere earth can show
Outshine its victor’s prize.
Yet, when, with naught their course to guide,
My feelings freely well,
My thoughts will turn to souls untried,
And with the young I dwell.
Why ask a feeling the reason why?—
One’s lot may have been too hard.
Those loved in youth, as years go by,
May rouse no more regard.
Who knows how many in age may fall
Whose feet all deem’d secure?
Who knows how many can trip at all
And ever again be pure?
Perchance through each fair childish face
I seem to see, as of yore,
A form whose young and tender grace
Beside me moves no more;
And yet a form that waits for me,
Where still, as hope maintains,
What has been, is, or is to be,
In a state unchanged remains
Perchance, I share in heaven’s delight
Whose hosts recall the past,
And guide, at times, in robes of white,
Earth’s young through gloom and blast.
But leave the cause yet undivined,
When feelings freely well,
The young have claims no others find,
And with the young I dwell.