I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.

Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

The old order changes yielding place to new.

Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.

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

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.