What's love, or hate, or anger, or joy,
when spoken by the callow boy?
Borrowed words, stolen by youth,
that bruise and tear as an untrained tooth.
They're passing fears, or fearful passions,
that find expression in vulgar fashions;
While nobler sentiments, yet unrefined,
are cultivated in the disciplined mind.
May finer language grace your tongue,
hyperbole be quickly shunned,
your metaphors be tastefully chosen,
and words born of heat be instantly frozen;
'Til finding your highest self-expression
demands not assiduity, but opts for discretion.
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