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Lets tell young people the best books are yet to written; the best painting, the best government the best of everything is yet to be done by them. (Maslow Abraham H.) I’m not bothered by the paparazzi and I don’t feel hemmed in, I’ve never felt that. My youth, mind you, there wasn’t quite the same attention to celebrities as there is now, but I’ve never felt that.
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Life went a-Maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy; When I was young! When I was young?–Ah, woful when!
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Like a kite cut from the string, lightly the soul of my youth has taken flight
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Like virgin parchment, capable of any inscription.
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Man’s own youth is the world’s youth; at least he feels as if it were, and imagines that the earth’s granite substance is something not yet hardened, and which he can mould into whatever shape he likes.
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My salad days when I was green in judgement: cold in blood.
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My salad days, When I was green in judgment, cold in blood, To say as I said then.
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No boy is well prepared for rough climbing, unless he is well shod with Christian principles.
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Nobody is quite so blase and sophisticated as a boy of nineteen who is just recovering from a baby grand passion.
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Nothing can be so amusingly arrogant as a young man who has just discovered an old idea and thinks it is his own.
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O happy unown’d youths! your limbs can bear The scorching dog-star and the winter’s air, While the rich infant, nurs’d with care and pain, Thirsts with each heat and coughs with every rain!
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O youth! thou often tearest thy wings against the thorns of voluptuousness.
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Oh! the joy Of young ideas painted on the mind, In the warm glowing colors fancy spreads On objects not yet known, when all is new, And all is lovely.
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On the neck of a young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise.
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Our youth began with tears and sighs, With seeking what we could not find; We sought and knew not what we sought; We marvel, now we look behind: Life’s more amusing than we thought.
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Our youth we can have but to-day; We may always find time to grow old.
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Over the trackless past, somewhere, Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, Only regained by faith and prayer, Only recalled by prayer and plaint, Each lost day has its patron saint!
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Praise youth and it will prosper.
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Puberty was very vague. I literally locked myself in a room and played guitar.
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Rash, inexperienced youth holds itself a chosen instrument, and allows itself unbounded license.
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