Young is the blood that yonder
Strides out the dusty mile,
And breasts the hill-side highway
And whistles loud the while,
And vaults the stile.
Yet backs, I think, have burdens
And shoulders carry care:
So fell to flesh its portion
When I and not my heir
Was young and there.
On miry meads in winter
The football sprang and fell,
May stuck the land with wickets:
For all the eye could tell
The world went well.
Yet well, God knows, it went not,
God knows, it went awry;
For me, one flowery Maytime,
It went so ill that I
Designed to die.
And if so long I carry
The lot that season marred,
’Tis that the sons of Adam
Are not so evil-starred
As they are hard.
Young is the blood that yonder
Succeeds to rick and fold,
Fresh are the form and favour
And new the minted mould:
The thoughts are old.