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.