Classic Poem

Young is the blood that yonder
Strides out the dusty mile,
And breasts the hillside highway
And whistles loud the while,
And vaults the stile.

Yet flesh, now too, has thorn-pricks,
And shoulders carry care,
Even as in other seasons,
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 that 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.