More Poems. 34. Young Is the Blood that Yonder 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. |
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