Poem by William Henry Davies

My Youth

My youth was my old age,
    Weary and long;
It had too many cares
    To think of song;
My moulting days all came
    When I was young.

Now, in life's prime, my soul
    Comes out in flower;
Late, as with Robin, comes
    My singing power;
I was not born to joy
    Till this late hour.

1. Smiles
2. Poor Kings
3. The Old Oak Tree
4. Seeking Joy
5. The Starved

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