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.