When all deliveries lose their former fire,
When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,—
'This is the end of every man's desire!'
The burden of long fielding, when the clay
Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour,
And running still thou stumblest, or the ray
Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore.
And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a 'skyer,'
And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,—