It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk, <br />Though my own red roses there may blow; <br />It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk, <br />Though the red roses crest the caps, I know. <br />For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast, <br />And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost, <br />And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host <br />As the run-stealers flicker to and fro, <br />To and fro: - <br />O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!<br /><br />Francis Thompson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-lord-s/