A Shropshire Lad - XVII

by A. E. Housman

　　

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Twice a week the winter thorough Here stood I to keep the goal: Football then was fighting sorrow For the young man's soul. Now in May time to the wicket 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 'tis how little mirth Keeps the bones of man from lying On the bed of earth.

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