People grow old only by deserting their ideals, Macarthur had written. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up read more

People grow old only by deserting their ideals, Macarthur had written. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up interest wrinkles the soul. You are as young as your faith, as old as your doubt; as young as your self-confidence, as old as your fear; as young as your hope as old as your despair. In the central place of every heart there is a recording chamber. So long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, cheer and courage, so long are you young. When your heart is covered with the snows of pessimism and the ice of cynicism, then, and then only, are you grown old. And then, indeed as the ballad says, you just fade away.

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
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Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away: poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene
That men call age, and those who would have been
Their sons, they gave their immortality.

Much education today is monumentally ineffective. All too often we are giving young people cut flowers when we should be read more

Much education today is monumentally ineffective. All too often we are giving young people cut flowers when we should be teaching them to grow their own plants.

And both were young, and one was beautiful.

And both were young, and one was beautiful.

An inordinate passion for pleasure is the secret of remaining young

An inordinate passion for pleasure is the secret of remaining young

Our youth we can have but to-day;
We may always find time to grow old.

Our youth we can have but to-day;
We may always find time to grow old.

Don't waste your youth growing up.

Don't waste your youth growing up.

Youth dreams a bliss on this side of death.
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
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Youth dreams a bliss on this side of death.
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
More grateful than this marble sleep;
It hears a voice within it tell:
Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well.
'Tis all perhaps which man acquires,
But 'tis not what our youth desires.

What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew.

What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew.