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 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.
A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad
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