Wreck not the ageing heart of quietness With alien uproar and rude jolly cries, Which (satyr-like to a mild maiden's pride) Ripen not wisdom but a large recoil; Give them their withered peace, their trial grave, Their past youth's three-scored shadowy effigy. Mock them not with your ripened turbulence, Their frost - mailed petulance with your torrid wrath, When, edging your boisterous thunders, shivers one word (Pap to their senile sneering, drug to truth, The feigned rampart of bleak ignorance) " Experience " -- crown of naked majesties, That tells us naught we know not, but confirms. O think, you reverend shadowy austere, Your Christ's youth was not ended when he died. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE WOMAN'S GENITALS by HAYDEN CARRUTH TO KNOW IN REVERIE THE ONLY PHENOMENOLOGY OF THE ABSOLUTE by HAYDEN CARRUTH A WINTER'S NIGHT by ROBERT FROST LA RONDE DU DIABLE by AMY LOWELL |