How Young I Am! Ah! Heaven, This Curse Of Youth Doth Mock Me From My Mirror With Great Eyes, And Pulsing Veins Repeat The Unwelcome Truth, That I Must Live, Though Hope Within Me Dies. So Young, And Yet I Have Had All Of Life. Why, Men Have Lived To See A Hundred Years, Who Have Not Known The Rapture, Joy, And Strife Of My Brief Youth, Its Passion And Its Tears. Oh! What Are Years? A Ripe Three Score And Ten Hold Often Less Of Life, In Its Best Sense, Than Just A Twelvemonth Lived By Other Men, Whose High-Strung Souls Are Ardent And Intense. But Having Seen All Depths And Scaled All Heights, Having A Heart Love Thrilled, And Sorrow Wrung, Knowing All Pains, All Pleasures, All Delights, Now I Would Die -But Cannot, Being Young. Nothing Is Left Me, But Supreme Despair; The Bitter Dregs That Tell Of Wasted Wine. Come Furrowed Brow, Dull Eye, And Frosted Hair, Companions Fit For This Old Heart Of Mine.