<html><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><div dir="ltr"><span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: Aleo, Georgia, serif; font-size: 2rem; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">My Lost Youth</span><div><div>by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</div><div><br></div><div>Often I think of the beautiful town </div><div> That is seated by the sea; </div><div>Often in thought go up and down </div><div>The pleasant streets of that dear old town, </div><div> And my youth comes back to me. </div><div> And a verse of a Lapland song </div><div> Is haunting my memory still: </div><div> "A boy's will is the wind's will, </div><div>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." </div><div><br></div><div>I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, </div><div> And catch, in sudden gleams, </div><div>The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, </div><div>And islands that were the Hesperides </div><div> Of all my boyish dreams. </div><div> And the burden of that old song, </div><div> It murmurs and whispers still: </div><div> "A boy's will is the wind's will, </div><div>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." </div><div><br></div><div>I remember the black wharves and the slips, </div><div> And the sea-tides tossing free; </div><div>And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, </div><div>And the beauty and mystery of the ships, </div><div> And the magic of the sea. </div><div> And the voice of that wayward song </div><div> Is singing and saying still: </div><div> "A boy's will is the wind's will, </div><div>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." </div><div><br></div><div>I remember the bulwarks by the shore, </div><div> And the fort upon the hill; </div><div>The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, </div><div>The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, </div><div> And the bugle wild and shrill. </div><div> And the music of that old song </div><div> Throbs in my memory still: </div><div> "A boy's will is the wind's will, </div><div>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." </div><div><br></div><div>I remember the sea-fight far away, </div><div> How it thundered o'er the tide! </div><div>And the dead captains, as they lay </div><div>In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, </div><div> Where they in battle died. </div><div> And the sound of that mournful song </div><div> Goes through me with a thrill: </div><div> "A boy's will is the wind's will, </div><div>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." </div><div><br></div><div>I can see the breezy dome of groves, </div><div> The shadows of Deering's Woods; </div><div>And the friendships old and the early loves </div><div>Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves </div><div> In quiet neighborhoods. </div><div> And the verse of that sweet old song, </div><div> It flutters and murmurs still: </div><div> "A boy's will is the wind's will, </div><div>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." </div><div><br></div><div>I remember the gleams and glooms that dart </div><div> Across the school-boy's brain; </div><div>The song and the silence in the heart, </div><div>That in part are prophecies, and in part </div><div> Are longings wild and vain. </div><div> And the voice of that fitful song </div><div> Sings on, and is never still: </div><div> "A boy's will is the wind's will, </div><div>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." </div><div><br></div><div>There are things of which I may not speak; </div><div> There are dreams that cannot die; </div><div>There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, </div><div>And bring a pallor into the cheek, </div><div> And a mist before the eye. </div><div> And the words of that fatal song </div><div> Come over me like a chill: </div><div> "A boy's will is the wind's will, </div><div>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." </div><div><br></div><div>Strange to me now are the forms I meet </div><div> When I visit the dear old town; </div><div>But the native air is pure and sweet, </div><div>And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, </div><div> As they balance up and down, </div><div> Are singing the beautiful song, </div><div> Are sighing and whispering still: </div><div> "A boy's will is the wind's will, </div><div>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." </div><div><br></div><div>And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, </div><div> And with joy that is almost pain </div><div>My heart goes back to wander there, </div><div>And among the dreams of the days that were, </div><div> I find my lost youth again. </div><div> And the strange and beautiful song, </div><div> The groves are repeating it still: </div><div> "A boy's will is the wind's will, </div><div>And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." </div></div><div><br></div>————————————————-<br><br><div dir="ltr"><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Seeya 'round town, Moscow, because . . .</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Moscow Cares" (the most fun you can have with your pants on)</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.MoscowCares.net</span></div><div><br></div><div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Tom Hansen</span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Moscow, Idaho</span></div></div><div><br></div><div>“A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met.”</div><div>- Roy E. Stolworthy</div><div></div></div></div></div></body></html>