LXXXVIII
Cricket: the Catch
WHIZZING, fierce, it came
Down the summer air,
Burning like a flame
On my fingers bare,
And it brought to me
As swift—a memory.
Happy days long dead
Clear I saw once more.
Childhood that is fled:—
Rossall on the shore,
Where the sea sobs wild
Like a homesick child.
Oh, the blue bird's fled!
Never man can follow.
Yet at times instead
Comes this scarlet swallow,
Bearing on its wings
(Where it skims and dips,
Gleaming through the slips)
Sweet Time-strangled things.
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