What do they know of youth, who still are young?
They but the singers of a golden song
Who may not guess its worth or wonder — flung
Like largesse to the throng.
We only,— young no longer,— old so long
Before its harmonies, stand marvelling —
Oh! we who listen — never they who sing.
Not for itself is beauty, but for us
Who gaze upon it with all reverent eyes;
And youth which sheds its glory luminous,
Gives ever in this wise:—
Itself the joy it may not realise.
Only we know, who linger overlong
Youth that is made of beauty and of song.