Alfred Edward Housman

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.