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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508749" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Fool</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;But it isn't playing the game,&quot; he said,<br> And he slammed his books away;<br>&quot;The Latin and Greek I've got in my head<br> Will do for a duller day.&quot;<br>&quot;Rubbish!&quot; I cried; &quot;The bugle's call<br> Isn't for lads from school.&quot;<br>D'ye think he'd listen? Oh, not at all:<br> So I called him a fool, a fool.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now there's his dog by his empty bed,<br> And the flute he used to play,<br>And his favourite bat . . . but Dick he's dead,<br> Somewhere in France, they say:<br>Dick with his rapture of song and sun,<br> Dick of the yellow hair,<br>Dicky whose life had but begun,<br> Carrion-cold out there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Look at his prizes all in a row:<br> Surely a hint of fame.<br>Now he's finished with, -- nothing to show:<br> Doesn't it seem a shame?<br>Look from the window! All you see<br> Was to be his one day:<br>Forest and furrow, lawn and lea,<br> And he goes and chucks it away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Chucks it away to die in the dark:<br> Somebody saw him fall,<br>Part of him mud, part of him blood,<br> The rest of him -- not at all.<br>And yet I'll bet he was never afraid,<br> And he went as the best of 'em go,<br>For his hand was clenched on his broken blade,<br> And his face was turned to the foe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I called him a fool . . . oh how blind was I!<br> And the cup of my grief's abrim.<br>Will Glory o' England ever die<br> So long as we've lads like him?<br>So long as we've fond and fearless fools,<br> Who, spurning fortune and fame,<br>Turn out with the rallying cry of their schools,<br> Just bent on playing the game.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A fool! Ah no! He was more than wise.<br> His was the proudest part.<br>He died with the glory of faith in his eyes,<br> And the glory of love in his heart.<br>And though there's never a grave to tell,<br> Nor a cross to mark his fall,<br>Thank God! we know that he &quot;batted well&quot;<br> In the last great Game of all.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508749" data-title="The Fool de Robert William Service" data-description="&quot;But it isn't playing the game,&quot; he said,
 And he slammed his books away;
&quot;The Latin and Greek I've got in my head
 Will do for a duller day.&quot;
&quot;Rubbish!&quot; I cried; &quot;The bugle's call
 Isn't for lads from school.&qu..."></div>
</div>
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