It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.
For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro: -
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!
More verses by Francis Thompson
- To A Snowflake
- The Hound Of Heaven
- Sister Songs-An Offering To Two Sisters - Part The Second
- Epilogue--To The Poet's Sitter
- Sister Songs-An Offering To Two Sisters - Part The First