Blink Of An Eye by Andrea Molina

To the Virgins to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

My Lost Youth by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;

Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,

And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,

The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides

Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;

And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,

And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;

The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,

And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o'er the tide!

And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay,

Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;

And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves

In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy's brain;

The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part

Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain

My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,

I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:

"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The Lost Garden by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There was a fair green garden sloping
From the southeast side of the mountain-ledge;
And the earliest tint of the dawn came groping
Down through its paths, from the day's dim edge.
The bluest skies and the reddest roses
Arched and varied its velvet sod;
And the glad birds sang, as the soul supposes
The angels sing on the hills of God.

I wandered there when my veins seemed bursting
With life's rare rapture, and keen delight;
And yet in my heart was a constant thirsting
For something over the mountain-height.
I wanted to stand in the blaze of glory
That turned to crimson the peaks of snow,
And the winds from the west all breathed a story
Of realms and regions I longed to know.

I saw on the garden's south side growing
The brightest blossoms that breathe of June;
I saw in the east how the sun was glowing,
And the gold air shook with a wild bird's tune;
I heard the drip of a silver fountain,
And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with glee;
But still I looked out over the mountain
Where unnamed wonders awaited me.

I came at last to the western gateway
That led to the path I longed to climb;
But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway,
For close at my side stood greybeard Time.
I paused, with feet that were fain to linger
Hard by that garden's golden gate;
But Time spoke, pointing with one stern finger;
"Pass on," he said, "for the day grows late."

And now on the chill grey cliffs I wander;
The heights recede which I thought to find,
And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder,

When I think of the garden I left behind.
Should I stand at last on its summit's splendor,
I know full well it would not repay
For the fair lost tints of the dawn so tender
That crept up over the edge o' day.

I would go back, but the ways are winding,
If ways there are to that land, in sooth;
For what man succeeds in ever finding
A path to the garden of his lost youth?
But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten,
That a rose-scent drifts from far away;
And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen,
That a young laugh breaks on the air like spray.

The Sparrow by Laurence Dunbar

A little bird, with plumage brown,
Beside my window flutters down,
A moment chirps its little strain,
Ten taps upon my window–pane,
And chirps again, and hops along,
To call my notice to its song;
But I work on, nor heed its lay,
Till, in neglect, it flies away.

So birds of peace and hope and love
Come fluttering earthward from above,
To settle on life’s window–sills,
And ease our load of earthly ills;
But we, in traffic’s rush and din
Too deep engaged to let them in,
With deadened heart and sense plod on,
Nor know our loss till they are gone.

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Life of a Flower by Andrea Molina

Planting a seed, the beginning of life
Nurtured and loved like a delicate feather
The showers of spring exalting your growth
Blooming through the months
Shining like the summer sun
Charming everything that comes nearby
But fall is right around the corner
And you no longer stand tall
Your fine petals dropping in the ground
Your bright colors are fading away
And in the twilight of winter
You cease to exist
What once was a blossom beauty
Now is frozen under the icy snow

As I began my senior year of High School, I came to the big realization that life as
I knew it was going to come to an end. I had only one more year of my “normal” life and
after this everything would be totally different. For the first time I understood the
importance of living in the moment and enjoying the present, since time passes at an
extremely fast pace. Time is something that I will never get back and the past will only
reside in my memory. In fact, this is something that poets throughout different historical
periods have acknowledged and recognized. Through their writings, they have expressed
the importance of enjoying and living in the present since time goes by faster than we
imagine, just like a “flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying”. The authors of
this poetry collection have made a great emphasis on the significance of youth and how
these are the golden years in life. It doesn’t matter how much you remember these times,
or how many memories you have, these will only be “long, long thoughts”. Ella Wheeler
Wilcox describes in her poem that the only way she can go back in time and remember
the joyful moments is when she “leans from the cliffs and listens, that a young laugh
breaks on the air like spray”. It is important to never take these glorious moments for
granted, because before we know it, they will disappear and be part of the recollection of
our memories. Since no “man succeeds in ever finding a path to the garden of his lost
youth” the poets are constantly conveying the idea of Carpe Diem because their
experience in life has taught them that we don’t know what is our “loss till they are
gone”. Human beings aren’t capable of understanding the tremendous value that the
present has, until it becomes the past. Due to this, they repeatedly demonstrate the
fondness they have of their youth because “age is best …, when youth and blood are
warmer”. The authors exhibit the significance of appreciating your youth and making the
most out of it by describing the dreadfulness of growing up and being old. The poet
Robert Herrick tells us that “for having lost but once your prime, you may forever tarry”
because once you exit your pleasurable years, nothing will ever live up to those
standards. As time goes by you can feel “a shadow falling on your spirit straightway”
because “ in the twilight of winter you cease to exist”. As you grow farther apart from
your youth, the spark inside of you slowly starts to fade away. By
pointing out the differences on how these periods in life are
experienced, they communicate the importance of enjoying and
being thankful for the present. Nevertheless, Dylan Thomas
encourages us in his poem to “rage against the dying of the light”
because even though death is approaching, it has not arrived and we
must take the little time we have remaining and make it count. Life
is very short, and before we know it, we will be on our deathbeds

looking back at all of our memories, so we must cherish everything that we have, because
in the blink of an eye, it will all be gone.