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 Maytime 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.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                     
                
Good poem Well written Sylva