Mid languid forms that lounge and sprawl,
And hardly deign to stop the ball,
A pattern fieldsman—sight to stir
The heart of every cricketer.
And down among the ghosts, who knows,
May flit dim forms of ghostly Pros;
(For such as throw on grass may well
Be doomed to bowl on Asphodel,
With Rhadamanthus standing there,
To see that every ball is fair.)