_Youth is still childhood: when we cast off every cloudy vesture, and
our thoughts are clear and mature; when every act is a conscious
thought, every thought an attempt to arrest feeling; our feelings strong
and overwhelming, our sensitiveness awakened by insignificant things in
life; when the skies race tumultuously with our blood, and the earth
shines and laughs; when our blood hangs suspended at the rustling of a
gown. Our vanity loves to subdue—battle, aggressive. How we despise
those older and duller—we want life, newness, excitement._
(_Circa 1916._)