A Shropshire Lad
And now the fancy passes by,
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they 'll say that I
Am quite myself again.
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they 'll say that I
Am quite myself again.
❦
XIX
TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
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