被遗忘的秋千上，荡着一段已逝的青春。

厉风狠狠刮过我的脸颊，大雨锤炼过后，我的身躯又被时光刻上道道年轮。洋洋洒洒的白色里，我凝视着拄着拐杖的你。我的面孔早已写满沧桑，而你却一如既往慈祥。

你说，你不后悔;

你说，通往彼岸的路上一定铺满鲜花。

我不语，只是觉得冻僵的血液再次充满热量……

这片天空，五彩斑斓。

回首，我们各自经历了光阴的拷问，最后又相遇在雾里，再相视。

叶上，一只蝴蝶破茧而出，我知道，它将艰辛却美丽着活下去。

一路上，我们历经沧桑;一路上，我们也迎着春光。

　　Youth means a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity, of the appetite for adventure over the love of ease. This often exists in a man of 60 more than a boy of 20. Nobody grows old merely by a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals.

　　Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. Worry, fear, self-distrust bows the heart and turns the spirit back to dust.

　　Whether 60 or 16, there is in every human being’s heart the lure of wonders, the unfailing appetite for what’s next and the joy of the game of living. In the center of your heart and my heart, there is a wireless station; so long as it receives messages of beauty, hope, courage and power from man and from the infinite, so long as you are young.

　　When your aerials are down, and your spirit is covered with snows of cynicism and the ice of pessimism, then you’ve grown old, even at 20; but as long as your aerials are up, to catch waves of optimism, there’s hope you may die young at 80.