 | The Way of the Winepress |  |
ROTTEN IN THE BUD.
UPON the youth of this our day, despairing,I look, to think that, in the turbid flood,
Which, drowsing in their veins, must pass for blood,
The seed-corn germs, which, come to harvest-bearing,
The future of our race, with Time's preparing,
Must furnish forth. For rotten in the bud
Meseems they are and in our modern mud
Wallow, still rottener waxing and uncaring.
The gaming-house for them the glories vernal,
Their foolish feasts the summer sweets outvie,
And they in utter Hades hold we dwell
Who scorn their joys: but, which of us, who sigh
In what their frenzy deems the shades infernal,
Would for their Heaven consent to exchange his Hell?
| The Way of the Winepress | |