THE WORLD, all busy round us here of late,
Is still unchanged: but you are twenty-one.
The mind, victorious with the rising sun,
Steps boldly and blithely through the imagined gate
On greener grass where brighter flowers await
The quickened senses and the waters run
With livelier music—and a web is spun
Of loveliest pattern on the loom of fate.
Doubt nothing, fare right on with manly trust,