A Shropshire Lad
XLV
If it chance your eye offend you,
Pluck it out, lad, and be sound:
'T will hurt, but here are salves to friend you,
And many a balsam grows on ground.
Pluck it out, lad, and be sound:
'T will hurt, but here are salves to friend you,
And many a balsam grows on ground.
And if your hand or foot offend you,
Cut it off, lad, and be whole;
But play the man, stand up and end you,
When your sickness is your soul.
Cut it off, lad, and be whole;
But play the man, stand up and end you,
When your sickness is your soul.
❦
XLVI
Bring, in this timeless grave to throw,
No cypress, sombre on the snow;
Snap not from the bitter yew
His leaves that live December through;
Break no rosemary, bright with rime
And sparkling to the cruel clime;
No cypress, sombre on the snow;
Snap not from the bitter yew
His leaves that live December through;
Break no rosemary, bright with rime
And sparkling to the cruel clime;
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