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youth

Dedication. To my mother

The flowers of romance that I cherished,

Around me lie withered and dead;

The stars of my youth's shining heaven,

Were but meteors whose brightness misled;

My Youth

My youth was my old age,
Weary and long;
It had too many cares
To think of song;
My moulting days all came
When I was young.

Now, in life's prime, my soul

My Youth

My Youth
by William Henry Davies
Information about this edition
From Foliage (1913)

My youth was my old age,
Weary and long;
It had too many cares
To think of song;

And what is love? It is a doll dressed up

And what is love? It is a doll dressed up

And what is love? It is a doll dressed up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine

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