Thursday Poem

Youth is wasted on the young
and tasted not by age-old tongues

O Crudelis Adhuc

Vain of your charms, and cruel still,
When winter’s unexpected chill
Shall humble pride; when the hair,
Now floating on your shoulders fair,
Will fall; and the bright flush that glows
With tint surpassing damask rose
On your soft cheek, by sure decay
Will roughen, fade, and die away,
How often before your glass you cry,
As the sad change appalls your eye:
“Why, when in early youth I shone,
My mind wore not its present tone?
Or why, since now such tone is mine
My cheeks wear not their youthful shine?”

Horace, 65-8 bc