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(16 December 1859 – 13 November 1907 / Preston, England)

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At Lord's

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!

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003


Read poems about / on: red, rose, running

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Comments about this poem (After-Strain by Francis Thompson )

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  • Frederick Guano (7/19/2008 5:11:00 AM)

    This is only the 1st stanza, where's the rest?

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