Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

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

Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.