 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
168
TWENTY YEARS AGO
I used to think, beneath the shade,
That life was such a simple thing,
There! like that over! deftly played;
How high and clear the plaudits ring!
I used to think that Fortune sent
At times a swift, at times a slow,
You played your best and were content;—
But that was twenty years ago.
That life was such a simple thing,
There! like that over! deftly played;
How high and clear the plaudits ring!
I used to think that Fortune sent
At times a swift, at times a slow,
You played your best and were content;—
But that was twenty years ago.
I thought that if the wickets flew
Your honest effort made amends;
Your score was blank, but then you drew
Such strength and solace from your friends.
But now I see from eye to eye
A smile of cynic pleasure go,
They like to see the wickets fly;—
And did they, twenty years ago?
Your honest effort made amends;
Your score was blank, but then you drew
Such strength and solace from your friends.
But now I see from eye to eye
A smile of cynic pleasure go,
They like to see the wickets fly;—
And did they, twenty years ago?
My comrades vanish from the pitch
With more of failure, less of fame,
And one is spoiled by growing rich,
And one is shadowed by a name.
And those who keep their wickets up
Still shakier, more uncertain grow,
And count less surely on the cup
They hoped for, twenty years ago.
With more of failure, less of fame,
And one is spoiled by growing rich,
And one is shadowed by a name.
169
Still shakier, more uncertain grow,
And count less surely on the cup
They hoped for, twenty years ago.
Around the pitch I see a ring
Of ugly faces, wild and wan,
And by the wickets stands a thing
I do not love to think upon.
My chances are more tamely sent;
And more depends upon a throw;
The game is somewhat different
From cricket twenty years ago.
Of ugly faces, wild and wan,
And by the wickets stands a thing
I do not love to think upon.
My chances are more tamely sent;
And more depends upon a throw;
The game is somewhat different
From cricket twenty years ago.
And yet we learn, some more, some less,
Beneath the showers, beneath the suns,
That sense and pluck and kindliness
Are braver things than getting runs.
And by the old pavilion sits
A simple form I used to know,
Who marks and claps the humblest hits,
Unchanged from twenty years ago.
Beneath the showers, beneath the suns,
That sense and pluck and kindliness
Are braver things than getting runs.
And by the old pavilion sits
A simple form I used to know,
Who marks and claps the humblest hits,
Unchanged from twenty years ago.
The ball spins on: young faces wait
To take our place, to join the sport;
Oh give us leisure, 'tis not late,—
We find the innings all too short;
And if the older fellows' play
Is to your thinking somewhat slow,
Leave them their chance: remember, they
Began it twenty years ago.
To take our place, to join the sport;
Oh give us leisure, 'tis not late,—
We find the innings all too short;
And if the older fellows' play
Is to your thinking somewhat slow,
Leave them their chance: remember, they
Began it twenty years ago.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |