Life

CHILDREN, ye have not lived, to you it seems 

Life is a lovely stalactite of dreams, 

Or carnival of careless joys that leap 

About your hearts like billows on the deep 

In flames of amber and of amethyst. 

Children, ye have not lived, ye but exist 

Till some resistless hour shall rise and move 

Your hearts to wake and hunger after love, 

And thirst with passionate longing for the things 

That burn your brows with blood-red sufferings. 

Till ye have battled with great grief and fears, 

And borne the conflict of dream-shattering years, 

Wounded with fierce desire and worn with strife, 

Children, ye have not lived: for this is life.