Even as a child, of sorrow that we give <br /> The dead, but little in his heart can find, <br /> Since without need of thought to his clear mind <br />Their turn it is to die and his to live: <br />Even so the winged New Love smiles to receive <br /> Along his eddying plumes the auroral wind, <br /> Nor, forward glorying, casts one look behind <br />Where night-wrack shrouds the Old Love fugitive. <br /> <br />There is a change in every hour's recall <br /> And the last cowslip in the fields we see <br /> On the same day with the first corn-poppy. <br />Alas for hourly change! Alas for all <br />The loves that from his hand proud Youth lets fall, <br /> Even as the beads of a told rosary!<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pride-of-youth/
