by A. E. Housman
Twice a week the winter thorough
 Here stood I to keep the goal:
Football then was fighting sorrow
 For the young man's soul.
Now in May time 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.