English poem
A BOUNDARY.
by Norman Gale (1862–1942)
What nonsense, Charles! Though rather stiff, And foreign from the style of Twenty, There's still enough of cricket stuff Remaining for the pastime. Plenty! Why, such a creed as now you preach Is only fit for scoffs and jeers; Wait till you lose your wind and reach— Wait till you come to fifty years.
What nonsense, Charles! You still can put The figures up by bounds and leaps, Sir; There's little myth about the pith You carry in your muscle. Heaps, Sir! Not yet the camp-stool period comes, With feelings precious close to tears; Still at your choice the leather hums— Wait till you total fifty years.
What nonsense, Charles! In you I see— You, lord of curl on shaven plots, Sir— A magazine of Fourers clean Prepared to bruise the railings. Lots, Sir! I have a dog's-eared birthday list That makes me mock your silly fears And hope for centuries from your wrist— Wait till you come to fifty years.