Ye who love youth, bring tears and aching hearts;
For now the dark hour calls, and youth departs,
Where the red scythe swings close o'er crowded fields,
And stroke by vivid stroke the moment yields
Our bravest, our most beautiful, our most loved.
Against such loveliness Time would have moved
Gently, to do his work with gradual grace,
Marking with all but unseen lines the face.
Whitening the hair and making dim the eye.
Love, feeling the slow change, " Can beauty die? "
Would ask, and mourn in poet-strain youth's dying.
But now the bullet's speed outwings Time's flying;
The bursting shell makes haste; the poisoned air
Brings darkness, though the wild eyes start and stare:
And song is stilled, so close the horrors break,
Only youth's name repeating, for love's sake.
Over wide seas and far away youth dies,
Yet here on us the growing shadow lies;
First the brown khaki spreading through the room,
As one by one death brings his hopes to bloom;
Then vacant seats, and thoughts of youth at drill,
And sense of near disaster mounting still,
And wonder if these rooms again shall fill
With boys young-hearted — or only phantom men
To their accustomed seats shall come again,
Haunting young hearts to follow where they led.
Ye that love youth, come ere their hour be sped,
And gazing in their eyes, behold if hate
Drive them, or reckless pride bring on their fate;
No hatred dwells in them, but quietness,
Slow hearts to curse, and ready hands to bless,
Slowness to cruelty, slowness to shame,
And readiness to die. The dark hour came
Thwarting with malice their supreme desires,
To kindle the ancient torch with clearer fires,
More poignant music, the new world set to song,
And art with modern pulses beating strong,
Knowledge and justice free at every door,
No more disease, and poverty no more,
And man, their brother, by their aid to rise;
Such dreams, not hatred, smoulder in their eyes,
Such hopes the kindred stars above them rouse,
Such starlike loves — true lips and happy vows.
Their hearts are like the hearts of those with whom
They share youth's dying; only a swifter doom
At Antwerp, at Liege, ended such dreams;
Such marching youth as theirs from London streams,
From Sydney, from Cape Town, from Montreal,
From Edinburgh, most beautiful of all —
Such hearts, whom death called from their hopes away;
Paris, twice great in trial, more brave and gay
The darker grew the danger, in the wrack
Gave up her youth and turned the peril back;
Florence and Rome, firm in accomplished glory,
Cities eternal, set in timeless story,
And many a hamlet on far Russian slopes
That dreamed of forward time and new-born hopes —
Death called to them, to us: " Now come away;
When Youth is ready, why should Age delay?
Mourn not for these; why grieve, when all must go! "
Ye that love youth, ah, what of youth the foe!
Alas, man's folly, and the mindless sin
That bade this strife of youth with youth begin!
They, too, imagined a new world; they, too,
Had dreams to brood on, and their work to do;
Hate came not easy to them, nor their flesh
Yearned to be dust again; only a mesh
Of ancient lies ensnared them — die they must,
And their true empire withers in their dust.
Ye that love youth, ah, not alone they perish
Whom the sword covets and the ravens cherish;
We who remain to win the towers of truth,
How fares our battle, with no aid from youth —
Our battle with the darkness evermore?
Age yields the torch and follows, youth before
Lifts it — but in what hands now shall it rise?
The world grows old, time darkens, and youth dies.
Ye that love youth, mourn not with tears, but pray
Curses on the black hearts who willed this day,
Who willed that youth should die, or, being blind,
Pulled down pillars of wrath on lost mankind.
May they know the last foulness they have wrought;
May their huge guilt come to them thought by thought,
Like water dropping on the shaven skull;
May their racked conscience, quickened to the full,
Build a new hell for their new depths of crime,
Till, thinking of themselves throughout all time,
Their plea shall reach up to the Crucified
To die by their own poison, as youth died.
Nay, let them die and pass and be forgot,
Our grief die, and our wrath, but perish not
The justice-loving, the crusading heart,
This will of youth to take the righteous part.
So youth shall pass through death and still live on;
Youth dies not — 'tis the shadowed hour is gone;
To these rooms shall the springing steps return.
And radiant the familiar eyes shall burn,
New beauty gathering round us, and new truth,
New wisdom, and new kindness — yea, new youth!
Then not alone the supreme soul of France
Shall light new paths for the new world's advance;
Beethoven then shall stir with tragic power
The children of men dying at this hour;
Goethe shall speak to them — and they shall hear
Their youth true-mirrored by the poet seer;
And smile a little at the note of strife
In Heine, who made such hard work of life.
Yea, let us pass with the dark hour of hate,
So wisdom come at last — though late — how late!
And youth be free to follow deathless wars,
Ardent for love, still striving for the stars.
For now the dark hour calls, and youth departs,
Where the red scythe swings close o'er crowded fields,
And stroke by vivid stroke the moment yields
Our bravest, our most beautiful, our most loved.
Against such loveliness Time would have moved
Gently, to do his work with gradual grace,
Marking with all but unseen lines the face.
Whitening the hair and making dim the eye.
Love, feeling the slow change, " Can beauty die? "
Would ask, and mourn in poet-strain youth's dying.
But now the bullet's speed outwings Time's flying;
The bursting shell makes haste; the poisoned air
Brings darkness, though the wild eyes start and stare:
And song is stilled, so close the horrors break,
Only youth's name repeating, for love's sake.
Over wide seas and far away youth dies,
Yet here on us the growing shadow lies;
First the brown khaki spreading through the room,
As one by one death brings his hopes to bloom;
Then vacant seats, and thoughts of youth at drill,
And sense of near disaster mounting still,
And wonder if these rooms again shall fill
With boys young-hearted — or only phantom men
To their accustomed seats shall come again,
Haunting young hearts to follow where they led.
Ye that love youth, come ere their hour be sped,
And gazing in their eyes, behold if hate
Drive them, or reckless pride bring on their fate;
No hatred dwells in them, but quietness,
Slow hearts to curse, and ready hands to bless,
Slowness to cruelty, slowness to shame,
And readiness to die. The dark hour came
Thwarting with malice their supreme desires,
To kindle the ancient torch with clearer fires,
More poignant music, the new world set to song,
And art with modern pulses beating strong,
Knowledge and justice free at every door,
No more disease, and poverty no more,
And man, their brother, by their aid to rise;
Such dreams, not hatred, smoulder in their eyes,
Such hopes the kindred stars above them rouse,
Such starlike loves — true lips and happy vows.
Their hearts are like the hearts of those with whom
They share youth's dying; only a swifter doom
At Antwerp, at Liege, ended such dreams;
Such marching youth as theirs from London streams,
From Sydney, from Cape Town, from Montreal,
From Edinburgh, most beautiful of all —
Such hearts, whom death called from their hopes away;
Paris, twice great in trial, more brave and gay
The darker grew the danger, in the wrack
Gave up her youth and turned the peril back;
Florence and Rome, firm in accomplished glory,
Cities eternal, set in timeless story,
And many a hamlet on far Russian slopes
That dreamed of forward time and new-born hopes —
Death called to them, to us: " Now come away;
When Youth is ready, why should Age delay?
Mourn not for these; why grieve, when all must go! "
Ye that love youth, ah, what of youth the foe!
Alas, man's folly, and the mindless sin
That bade this strife of youth with youth begin!
They, too, imagined a new world; they, too,
Had dreams to brood on, and their work to do;
Hate came not easy to them, nor their flesh
Yearned to be dust again; only a mesh
Of ancient lies ensnared them — die they must,
And their true empire withers in their dust.
Ye that love youth, ah, not alone they perish
Whom the sword covets and the ravens cherish;
We who remain to win the towers of truth,
How fares our battle, with no aid from youth —
Our battle with the darkness evermore?
Age yields the torch and follows, youth before
Lifts it — but in what hands now shall it rise?
The world grows old, time darkens, and youth dies.
Ye that love youth, mourn not with tears, but pray
Curses on the black hearts who willed this day,
Who willed that youth should die, or, being blind,
Pulled down pillars of wrath on lost mankind.
May they know the last foulness they have wrought;
May their huge guilt come to them thought by thought,
Like water dropping on the shaven skull;
May their racked conscience, quickened to the full,
Build a new hell for their new depths of crime,
Till, thinking of themselves throughout all time,
Their plea shall reach up to the Crucified
To die by their own poison, as youth died.
Nay, let them die and pass and be forgot,
Our grief die, and our wrath, but perish not
The justice-loving, the crusading heart,
This will of youth to take the righteous part.
So youth shall pass through death and still live on;
Youth dies not — 'tis the shadowed hour is gone;
To these rooms shall the springing steps return.
And radiant the familiar eyes shall burn,
New beauty gathering round us, and new truth,
New wisdom, and new kindness — yea, new youth!
Then not alone the supreme soul of France
Shall light new paths for the new world's advance;
Beethoven then shall stir with tragic power
The children of men dying at this hour;
Goethe shall speak to them — and they shall hear
Their youth true-mirrored by the poet seer;
And smile a little at the note of strife
In Heine, who made such hard work of life.
Yea, let us pass with the dark hour of hate,
So wisdom come at last — though late — how late!
And youth be free to follow deathless wars,
Ardent for love, still striving for the stars.