Cricket, however, has more in it than mere efficiency. There is something called the spirit of cricket, which cannot be defined.

He that shuts love out, in turn shall be Shut out from love, and on her threshold lie, Howling in outer darkness.

And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.

Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.

I came in haste with cursing breath, And heart of hardest steel; But when I saw thee cold in death, I felt as man should feel. For when I look upon that face, That cold, unheeding, frigid brown, Where neither rage nor fear has place, By Heaven! I cannot hate thee now!

By blood a king, in heart a clown.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.