by Berton Braley
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;
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
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
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.
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
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!