'Tis now the summer of your youth: time has not cropped the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
What though youth gave love and roses, Age still leaves us friends and wine.
All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.
Youth is to all the glad season of life; but often only by what it hopes, not by what it attains, or what it escapes.
My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
Everywhere across whatever sorrows of which our life is woven, some radiant joy will gaily flash past.
There's no such thing as old age, there is only sorrow.
When we look on the roses and gaiety of youth, the mournful idea of mortality is altogether alien to our thoughts. We have heard of it as a speculation and a tale, but nothing but experience can bring it home to us.
Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.
Childhood itself is scarcely more lovely than a cheerful, kindly, sunshiny old age.
Youth is not a time of life; it is a state of mind; it is not a matter of rosy cheeks, red lips and supple knees; it is a matter of the will, quality of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions; it is the freshness of the deep springs of life.