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...THEN AND NOW by CECIL DAY LEWIS CALLING DREAMS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON FAITH by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE CROSS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE BLACK MAMMY by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: OSCAR HUMMEL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE SPARROW HARK IN THE RAIN (ALEXANDER STEPHENS HEARS NEWS) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |