Twice a week the winter through 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.
From A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Housman 1887