Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

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

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

I was born at a very early age. Before I had time to regret it, I was four and a half years old.

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

A sick child is always the mother’s property; her own feelings generally make it so.

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

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.

No wise man ever wished to be younger.

Childhood knows what it wants—to leave childhood behind.

Youth is the time to go flashing from one end of the world to the other both in mind and body, to try the manners of different nations, to hear the chimes at midnight.

Rejoice, young man, while you are young, and let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth. Follow the inclination of your heart and the desire of your eyes, but know that for all these things God will bring you into judgment.

The young leading the young is like the blind leading the blind.