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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=391995" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>At Lord's</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=391995" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">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!</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Francis+Thompson">Francis Thompson</a></strong></div>

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