A Shropshire Lad
the winter thorough
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A Shropshire Lad
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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 Maytime 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. |
 It nods and curtseys and recovers |
 Oh, when I was in love with you |