English poem
TO HELEN
by Andrew Lang
Helen, thy bowling is to me Like that wise Alfred Shaw's of yore, Which gently broke the wickets three: From Alfred few could smack a four: Most difficult to score!
The music of the moaning sea, The rattle of the flying bails, The grey sad spires, the tawny sails - What memories they bring to me, Beholding thee!
Upon our old monastic pitch, How sportsmanlike I see thee stand! The leather in thy lily hand, Oh, Helen of the yorkers, which Are nobly planned!