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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
BADMINTON, by ALFRED COMYNS LYALL Poet's Biography First Line: Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed Last Line: God smite their souls to the depths of hell.' Subject(s): Badminton | |||
Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed, Under the Moree battlement's shade; Close to the glacis our game was formed, There had the fight been, and there we played. Lightly the demoiselles tittered and leapt, Merrily capered the players all; North, was the garden where Nicholson slept, South, was the sweep of a battered wall. Near me a Musalman, civil and mild, Watched as the shuttlecocks rose and fell; And he said, as he counted his beads and smiled, 'God smite their souls to the depths of hell.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BADMINTON TO YOU by TOM SAVAGE MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU [OR, HINDOO] PRINCE [AND SKEPTIC] by ALFRED COMYNS LYALL THREE SILENCES IN THAILAND by KAREN SWENSON AUTUMN DIALOGUE by LOUIS UNTERMEYER COMFORT [TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE] by ROBERT HERRICK ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY by THOMAS HOOD CHANGE by WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS ANOTHER SPRING by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |
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