I pray of thee, angels, dampen not the souls of youth,
Nor guide them into seven years of trial by failure.
Do not heed their naive, sentimental requests for despair.
Christ comes every spring for the tender hearted.
He seems comfortable among the willow-children,
Bears comforting fruit, sprigs, and leaves for the downtrodden beauties,
And well hammered swords for the under-couraged boys.
Many cycles late He sits on my wet stoop bearing adolescent gifts.
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