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User Rating:
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6.1
/10
(52 votes)
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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!
Francis Thompson
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Friday, January 03, 2003 |
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Read poems about / on: red, rose, running
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Comments about this poem (At Lord's
by
Francis Thompson
) |
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Frederick Guano (7/19/2008 5:11:00 AM)
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This is only the 1st stanza, where's the rest?
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