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.
No 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,

Love's legend and the dream of days to be,
And fables fair of Life's mythology,
Rapt hour by hour till dewy twilight fall.
Whatever be the page-

Whether on metaphysical riddles faint,
Or the rapt visions of some far-off 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 blest Gautama-all are thine-
Upon thee year by year the words divine
Of our great Master, falling like the dew,
Fill 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 Nature 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 subtle flame

Comes on thee, as a shadow of night,

Marring thy young life's white,

And some strange thrill thou knowest without a

name,

And at thy side shame fast Desire

Stands unreproved, and guides thy bashful feet

To where, girt by dim depths of solitude,

Sits Fancy, disarrayed, in a deep wood;

And oh, but thy 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

plow,

Or loom, or forge, or mine, a kingly growth art thou!

Where'er thou art, though earthly 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.

And sweet of scent, watered with heaven's own dew,
Fair being, that holdest hidden motherhood
And undeveloped good

Implicit in thee, even as white blooms hold

Their fragrant globes of gold.

Men know no praise they can withhold from thee,
Oh, sweet virginity!

Since Artemis first trod the youngling earth

Thou glorious and surpassing birth!

The vestal fires were thine, the convents cold

Are thine as those of old.

To thee, when strong sweet flowers of Life and Sense,
Scent
gross we turn, oh, white and gracious innocence!
Yea, still, while life grows fast and free

To thee we turn a world worn eye.
Throbbing delights are youth's and pulses high;
Yet sometimes these will pall, and then to thee
We turn, oh fair pale lily, clothed with purity!

For sure it is indeed

Two streams through life's ground flow, and both are good

The one whose goal is gracious motherhood,

The other in the cloister pale and dim

Finding sufficient meed

In pure observance, rite, and soaring hymn.

We may not blame nor hold them wrong
Who through their lives their liturgies prolong,
Even though the prize of motherhood be great,
But always thine, oh blest estate!
Thine it is, even in youth's hot sun to keep
Celestial snows and pure abysses deep.

I see thy fair expanding mind,

A precious blossom parcel-blown,
Not with the young man's ardent rage,
But with a gentler radiance all thy own,
Fixed now on history's fabled page,
Now on the bard's diviner thought,
And now by some deep music stirred
Deeper than any spoken word,
Or sweet love-story soft as southern wind.

Dear flower, and fair to mortal eye,
Whatever be thy age, thy clime, thy race,
Whether the gentle curve of thy young breast
Be hidden in white lawn or stand confest
In innocent brown nakedness and grace,
Thou art the high and unattained prize
Of all the generations that have been;
Upon life's throne thou sittest as a Queen,
And at thy gracious feet

The ages kneel to thy eternal Truth,

Thy pure and spotless innocence,

And free from stain of Time and Sense,
Thy undefiled youth.

White flower of Life's tree

Love like a wanton bee,

Shall fly to thee, and from thy deep cold cells
Rifle the honey. Tranquil stream,

That from the chill heart of the untrodden snow,
So calm and clear dost flow;
Spring wakes beneath the gleam
Of a new sun which swells

A warm and rapid torrent strong,
Soon in the sunny, balmy weather,
To break its banks and bear together
Your mingled streams along.