He is too young yet to know life's demands;
Being no natural philosopher,
He must from cause and custom draw that art
Which some of Nature have, the primal gift
Of all her treasury the open thought
That climates in all circumstances, and breathes
A native ease in everything; fear-proof,
Even as a wild bird's weather-proof, being born
And bred light as the leaves he habits in;
Unlike his brother housed and finely reared
With magisterial care, whom every change
Affects like a distemper, as if he
Had lost his nature's ancient art, and grew
Like an exotic with a borrowed life.
Youth's Inexperience.
written byRobert Crawford
© Robert Crawford