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The Conqueror
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| by Berton Braley |
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Room for me, graybeard, room, make room!
Menace
me not with you eyes of gloom;
Jostle me not from
the place I seek,
For my arms are strong and your
own are weak,
And if my plea to you be denied
I'll thrust your wearying forms aside.
Pity you?
Yes, but I cannot stay;
I am the spirit of Youth;
make way!
Room for me, timid ones, room, make
room!
Little I care for your fret and fume--
I
dare whatever is mine to meet,
I laugh at sorrow
and jeer defeat;
To doubt and doubters I give
the lie,
And fear is stilled as I swagger by,
And life's a fight and I seek the fray;
I am the
spirit of Youth; make way.
Room for me, mighty
ones, room, make room!
I fear no power and dread
no doom;
And you who curse me and you who bless
Alike must bow to my dauntlessness.
I topple
the king from his golden throne,
I smash old idols
of brass and stone,
I am not hampered by yesterday.
Room for the spirit of Youth; make way!
Room
for me, all of you, make me room!
Where the rifles
clash and the cannon boom,
Where the glory beckons
or love or fame
I plunge me heedlessly in the game.
The old, the wary, the wise, the great,
They
cannot stay me, for I am Fate,
The brave young master
of all good play,
I am the spirit of Youth; make
way! |
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Website Copyright 2000 - 2010 Ellen Bailey Poems |
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