Youth — of the empty swing that still must chart, begin;
I found a boy the old maps named as kin.
A small prince — shelves still keep his early fame —
Whose course was his alone (and mine to name
In rhyme). The elders left a plotted stone:
"The task is great. The middle is unknown.
We marked the edges. You must draw the way."
He took the charge. He would not wait a day.
As when a mixer, spun to fullest blast,
Waves left, waves right, and nothing holds at last
The cream it sought — the bowl stays pale and thin —
So he waved hard, and nothing fruited in.
He stood there pumped and sad. "This could be last,"
He said. I would not let the tomb hold fast.
I brought him Youth. I set it in his hand —
Not worry's course. A sweeter, living land:
"Your life is honey, not a shut dark door.
The nectar came already. Chart once more.
So you, and you alone, can keep this path.
I bring you Youth. I bring you what it hath."
He looked. The empty swing had been the start —
Not failure's proof, but motion of the heart.
He waved again. The fruit was still not there.
He charted. Honey held. He did not spare
The path to tombs. Youth — empty swing, then chart —
I brought you. He kept on. That was the art.