Poetry Archives

When all the world is young, lad,
  And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
  And every lass a queen,—
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
  And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
  And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
  And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
  And all the wheels run down,—
Creep home, and take your place there,
  The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there
  You loved when all was young.