THE OLD, OLD SONG
When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green ;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen; —
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.
When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down; —
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when all was young.
— Charles Kingsley.
THE EAGLE
He clasps the crag with hooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
— Alfred Tennyson.
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