Young is the blood that yonder

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 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.