Youth's Inexperience. Poem by Robert Crawford

He is too young yet to know life's demands;
Being no natural philosopher,
He must from cause and custom draw that art
Which some of Nature have, the primal gift
Of all her treasury — the open thought
That climates in all circumstances, and breathes
A native ease in everything; fear-proof,
Even as a wild bird's weather-proof, being born
And bred light as the leaves he habits in;
Unlike his brother housed and finely reared
With magisterial care, whom every change
Affects like a distemper, as if he
Had lost his nature's ancient art, and grew
Like an exotic with a borrowed life.