Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones

When I Go Away From You The World Beats Dead Like A Slackened Drum.

Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only Whalebone And Brocade.

Oh! To Be A Flower Nodding In The Sun, Bending, Then Upspringing As The Breezes Run.

In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My Powdered Hair And Jeweled Fan, I Too Am A Rare Pattern.

On The Neck Of The Young Man Sparkles No Gem So Gracious As Enterprise. Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones.