Poem by Francis Thompson

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! 

1. Dream-Tryst
2. The Making of Viola
3. Gilded Gold
4. To My Godchild, Francis M.W.M.
5. To a Child Heard Repeating Her Mother's Verses

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