A word much used when tragic tales are told;
We are the younger born, yet we are very old
In understanding, and our knowledge makes us bold.
Boldly we look at life,
Loving its stress and strife,
And hating all conventions that may mean restraint,
Yet shunning sin's black taint.

We know wine's taste;
And the young-maiden bloom and sweetness of our lips
Is often in eclipse
Under the brown weed's stain.
Yet we are chaste;
We have no large capacity for joy or pain,
But an insatiable appetite for pleasure.
We have no use for leisure
And never learned the meaning of that word 'repose.'
Life as it goes
Must spell excitement for us, be the cost what may.
Speeding along the way,

We ofttimes pause to do some generous little deed,
And fill the cup of need;
For we are kind at heart,
Though with less heart than head,
Unmoral, not immoral, when the worst is said;
We are the product of the modern day.

We are the little daughters of Time and the World his wife,
We are not like the children, born in their younger life,