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...LOST ILLUSIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE WAVES OF BREFFNY by EVA GORE-BOOTH LEARNING TO READ by FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS HARPER HYMN TO THE FLOWERS by HORACE SMITH A SONG ABOUT SINGING by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH IN THE GARDEN (WITH APOLOGIES TO ALFRED NOYES) by MARJORIE W. BRACHLOW IN HADES by ANNA CALLENDER BRACKETT |