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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BALLROOM DARK by CLARENCE MAJOR NOEL: CHRISTMAS EVE, 1913 by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THE PHANTOM HORSEWOMAN by THOMAS HARDY ON A LADY WHO FANCIED HERSELF A BEAUTY by CHARLES SACKVILLE (1637-1706) TO A PORTRAIT by ARTHUR WILLIAM SYMONS |