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. Unto This Last
2. Dedication to Wilfred and Alice Meynell
3. Epilogue to the Poet's Sitter
4. Scala Jacobi Portaque Eburnea
5. Gilded Gold

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