Mastery in poetry consists largely in the instinct for not ruining or smothering or tinkering with moments of vision.

Cricket to us was more than play, it was a worship in the summer sun.

I am for the woods against the world, But are the woods for me?

They died in splendour, these who claimed no spark Of glory save the light in a friend's eye.

Devise some creed, and live it, beyond theirs,Or I shall think you but their spendthrift heirs.

Cricket to us was more than play,It was a worship in the summer sun.