A Shropshire Lad/XVII
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XVII
Twice a week the winter thorough
Here stood I to keep the goal:
Football then was fighting sorrow
For the young man's soul.
Here stood I to keep the goal:
Football then was fighting sorrow
For the young man's soul.
Now in Maytime to the wicket
Out I march with bat and pad:
See the son of grief at cricket
Trying to be glad.
Out I march with bat and pad:
See the son of grief at cricket
Trying to be glad.
Try I will; no harm in trying:
Wonder 't is how little mirth
Keeps the bones of man from lying
On the bed of earth.
Wonder 't is how little mirth
Keeps the bones of man from lying
On the bed of earth.
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