A Shropshire Lad - 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.

    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.