TWO minutes' rest till the next man goes in! The tired arms lie with every sinew slack On the mown grass. Unbent the supple back, And elbows apt to make the leather spin Up the slow bat and round the unwary shin, -- In knavish hands a most unkindly knack; But no guile shelters under this boy's black Crisp hair, frank eyes, and honest English skin. Two minutes only. Conscious of a name, The new man plants his weapon with profound Long-practised skill that no mere trick may scare. Not loth, the rested lad resumes the game: The flung ball takes one madding tortuous bound, And the mid-stump three somersaults in air. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ALMANACH DU PRINTEMPS VIVAROIS by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE HILL ABOVE THE MINE by MALCOLM COWLEY FRAGMENTARY BLUE by ROBERT FROST EXPLICATION OF AN IMAGINARY TEXT by JAMES GALVIN SPECIAL EFFECTS by JAMES GALVIN |