This time of year a twelvemonth past, <br />When Fred and I would meet, <br />We needs must jangle, till at last <br />We fought and I was beat. <br /> <br />So then the summer fields about, <br />Till rainy days began, <br />Rose Harland on her Sundays out <br />Walked with the better man. <br /> <br />The better man she walks with still, <br />Though now 'tis not with Fred: <br />A lad that lives and has his will <br />Is worth a dozen dead. <br /> <br />Fred keeps the house all kinds of weather, <br />And clay's the house he keeps; <br />When Rose and I walk out together <br />Stock-still lies Fred and sleeps.<br /><br />Alfred Edward Housman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-time-of-year-a-twelvemonth-past/
