Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BADMINTON, by ALFRED COMYNS LYALL Poet's Biography First Line: Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed Last Line: God smite their souls to the depths of hell.' Subject(s): Badminton | ||||||||
Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed, Under the Moree battlement's shade; Close to the glacis our game was formed, There had the fight been, and there we played. Lightly the demoiselles tittered and leapt, Merrily capered the players all; North, was the garden where Nicholson slept, South, was the sweep of a battered wall. Near me a Musalman, civil and mild, Watched as the shuttlecocks rose and fell; And he said, as he counted his beads and smiled, 'God smite their souls to the depths of hell.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BADMINTON TO YOU by TOM SAVAGE MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU [OR, HINDOO] PRINCE [AND SKEPTIC] by ALFRED COMYNS LYALL THAT VAGRANT MISTRAL VEXING THE SUN: A FAR CRY by DARA WIER COMFORT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING IN THE GARDEN (1) by EMILY DICKINSON DREAM SONG: 1 by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR NEARER by ROBERT MALISE BOWYER NICHOLS VISIONS OF THE WORLDS VANITIE by EDMUND SPENSER THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE by ALFRED TENNYSON THE PHOENIX REBORN FROM ITS ASHES by LOUIS ARAGON LAMENT OF AROMAITERAI by AROMAITERAI ON THE MARRIAGE OF A BEAUTEOUS YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN WITH AN ANCIENT MAN by FRANCIS BEAUMONT |
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