Explore "A Boundary" by Norman Gale on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
What nonsense, Charles! / Though rather stiff, / And foreign from the style of Twenty, / There's still enough of cricket stuff / Remaining for the pastime. Plenty! / Why, such a creed as now you preach / Is only fit for scoffs and jeers; / Wait till you lose your wind and reach -- / Wait till you come to fifty years.
What nonsense, Charles! / You still can put / The figures up by bounds and leaps, Sir; / There's little myth about the pith / You carry in your muscle. Heaps, Sir! / Not yet the camp-stool period comes, / With feelings precious close to tears; / Still at your choice the leather hums -- / Wait till you total fifty years.
What nonsense, Charles! / In you I see -- / You, lord of curl on shaven plots, Sir -- / A magazine of Fourers clean / Prepared to bruise the railings. Lots, Sir! / I have a dog's-eared birthday list / That makes me mock your silly fears / And hope for centuries from your wrist -- / Wait till you come to fifty years.