I’ve never understood why people consider youth a time of freedom and joy. It’s probably because they have forgotten their own.

Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

There comes a time in every rightly constructed boy’s life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.

Blessed are the young, for they shall inherit the national debt.

No time to marry, no time to settle down, I’m a young woman, and ain’t done runnin’ round.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

Ah, there are no children nowadays.

The young man must store up, the old man must use.

The young always have the same problem—how to rebel and conform at the same time. They have now solved this by defying their elders and copying one another.

The boy is, of all wild beasts, the most difficult to manage. 

Grown up, and that is a terribly hard thing to do. It is much easier to skip it and go from one childhood to another.

Childhood has no forebodings—but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.

No wise man ever wished to be younger.