Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ODE OF YOUTH: 1. EARLY MANHOOD, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ODE OF YOUTH: 1. EARLY MANHOOD, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: And first, oh youth, I see thee with the plume
Last Line: The thought that shall redeem and lift man higher yet.
Subject(s): Youth


And first, oh youth, I see thee with the plume
Of thy thick locks upon thy forehead set,
And thy frank eyes kindling with fire, or dim
With soaring thoughts of heaven, or wet
With kindly dews of pity; the straight limb
And the strong arm, and force that never tires;
The cheek and lip touched with the early down
Of manhood's fullest crown;
The heart, which hardly thought of passion fires;
The mind, which opens like a flower in spring
To all the wanton airs the seasons bring; --
The young existence self-contained no longer,
But pressing outward hour by hour,
Fired with a thirst continually stronger,
For some supreme white flower.
Whatever be the prize --
Whether upon the difficult heights of Thought,
Or 'midst the white laborious dust of Duty,
Or on the peaks of Power, the bloom be sought,
Or in the flush and thrill of the new Beauty
Born of a maiden's eyes.

Oh, happiest age of all
When hope is without measure
And life a thrill of pleasure,
And health is high and force unspent,
Nor Disappointment yet, nor sordid Care,
Nor yet Satiety, nor the cold chill
Which creeps upon the world-worn heart to kill
All higher hope, and leaves us to despair;
Nor doubt of God or men can touch, but all
The garden ground of Life is opened wide;
And lo! on every side
The flowers of spring are blooming, and the air
Is scented, and sweet song is everywhere,
And young eyes read from an enchanted book,
With rapt entranced look,
Loves legend and the Dream of days to be,
And fables fair of Life's mythology,
Through the still hours till dewy twilight fall.

Whatever be the page --
Whether of metaphysical riddles faint,
Or the rapt visions of some ancient seer,
The burning thoughts of saint,
Or maxims of the sage --
Thou comest, oh youth, with thought as sure,
With mind severe and pure;
Thou takest afresh, with each returning year,
The fair thin dreams, the philosophic lore
Of the great names of yore --
Plato the wise, Confucius, Socrates,
The blessed Gautama -- all are thine;
Upon thee year by year the words divine
Of our great Master, falling like the dew,
Sway thee, to hate the wrong, to love the true;
For thee the fair poetic page is spread
Of the great living and the greater dead;
For thee the glorious gains of Science lie
Stretched open to thine eye;
And to thy fresh and undimmed brain,
The mysteries of Number and of Space
Seem easy to explain;
Thou lookest with clear gaze upon the long
Confusions of the Race, the paradox of Wrong;
And dost not fear to trace,
With youth's strong fiery faith that knows no chill,
The secret of Transgression, the prime source
Of Good and Evil, and the unfailing course
Of the Ineffable Will.

And sometimes life, glowing with too fierce fire,
O'er sea and land in rapid chase,
Snatches thee with tumultuous will,
And careless, breathless pace.
Sometimes a darker thought
Comes on thee as a shadow of night,
Marring thy young life's white,
And some new longing in the past untaught,
And at thy side shamefast Desire
Stands unreproved and guides thy bashful feet
To where, girt by dim depths of solitude,
Sits Fancy, disarrayed, in a deep wood;
And ah, but Youth runs swift and Pleasure is sweet!

And sometimes, too, looking with too bold eye
Upon the unclouded sky,
Sudden the heavens are hidden, and the great Sun
Sinks as if day were done,
And the brain reels and all the life grows faint,
Smitten by too much light; or a thick haze
Born out of sense doth overcloud
The soul, and leaves it blind and in amaze,
And the young heart is dull and the young brain
Dark till God shine again.

Oh, fairest age of all!
Whate'er thy race or clime,
To-day ten thousand cities on thee call,
Broad plain and palm-fringed isle.
Thine is the swelling life, the eager glance and smile,
Oh, precious fruit of Life and Time!
Oh, worker of the world! to whose young arm
The brute earth yields and wrong, as to a charm;
Young seaman, soldier, student, toiler at the plough,
Or loom, or forge, or mine, a kingly growth art thou!
Where'er thou art, though earthy oft and coarse,
Thou bearest with thee hidden springs of force,
Creative power, the flower, the fruitful strife,
The germ, the potency of Life,
Which draws all things to thee unwittingly.
The Future lies within thy loins, and all the Days to be
To thee Time giveth to beget,
The Thought that shall redeem and lift Man higher yet.





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