49 Cricket Poems to Remind the Joy of Games
Cricket is not just a sport, but a way of life for many fans around the world.
In this collection, we celebrate the joy of cricket through the medium of poetry.
Whether you’re a die-hard fan or a casual observer, these cricket poems are sure to inspire and entertain you.
From the best and most famous cricket poems to funny, inspirational, short, long, rhyming, and kid-friendly cricket poems, there’s something for everyone in this collection.
So sit back, relax, and immerse yourself in the world of cricket poetry. Let’s dive into a plethora of poems about cricket!
Best Cricket Poems
Cricket has inspired some of the finest poetry in the English language. In this category, we have curated a selection of the best poems about cricket ever written, capturing the thrill, drama, and beauty of the game.
1. An August Cricket
by Arthur Goodenough
When August days are hot and long,
And the August hills are hazy,
And clouds are slow and winds also,
And brooks are low and lazy.
When beats the fierce midsummer sun,
Upon the drying grasses;
A modest minstrel sings his song
To any soul that passes.
A modest, yet insistent bard
Who while the landscape slumbers;
And Nature seems, herself asleep,
Pours out his soul in numbers.
His song is in a tongue unknown,
Yet those, methink, who hear it
Drink in it’s healing melody
Renewed in frame and spirit.
His life is brief as is the leaf
To summer branches clinging!
But yet no thought of death or grief,
He mentions in his singing.
No epic strain is his to sing;—
No tale of loss or glory;—
He has no borrowed heroines;
His heroes are not gory.
He is no scholar; all he knows
Was taught by his condition,
He never studied synthesis,
Nor simple composition.
His lays are all of rustic themes;
Of summer’s joys and treasure
Yet scarce could Homer’s masterpiece,
Afford us keener pleasure.
2. My Cricket
by My Cricket
Farther in summer than the birds,
Pathetic from the grass,
A minor nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive mass.
No ordinance is seen,
So gradual the grace,
A pensive custom it becomes,
Enlarging loneliness.
Antiquest felt at noon
When August, burning low,
Calls forth this spectral canticle,
Repose to typify.
Remit as yet no grace,
No furrow on the glow,
Yet a druidic difference
Enhances nature now.
3. Cricket Lake
by C. J. Krieger
Oh cricket lake
With your chirping waters
And long green legs
Play a song for me
Of flying birds
Whose songs dance
While whisking on the wings
Of warm southern breezes
Take me away
Far away
To palm tree lands
And white sand beaches
Where I might rest
In the warmth
Of the summer’s sun
4. The Cricket
by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
Oh, to be a cricket,
That’s the thing!
To scurry in the grass
And to have one’s fling!
And it’s oh, to be a cricket
In the warm thistle-thicket,
Where the sun-winds pass,
Winds a-wing,
And the bumble-bees hang humming,
Hum and swing,
And the honey-drops are coming!
It’s to be a summer rover,
That can see a sweet, and pick it
With the sting!
Never mind the sting!
And it’s oh, to be a cricket
In the clover!
A gay summer rover
In the warm thistle-thicket,
Where the honey-drops are coming,
Where the bumble-bees hang humming—
That’s the thing!
5. Cricket-A Mans Game
by Keith Oldrey
This glorious game, we named it cricket
The finest sport (besides our middle wicket)
How can you describe the fun we get
With mere verbs, adjectives or epithet.
For cricket’s hardly a game at all
Overs of boredom with bat missing ball
No it’s the chat that I love
Placing this game on a plane above.
The pleasantries exchanged between bowler and bat
It doesn’t come, much better than that
The chat twixt keeper and slip
The humour without malice, the icy quip
There is nothing like the camaraderie
The laughter and the hilarity
When leather hits the inside of your knee.
Solicitous inquiries about the pain.
Captain quietly praying for a dropp of rain.
White flannelled fools in sylvan places
No rubbish talked here, of pars or aces
Leisurely walks around tree-lined grounds
Senior spectators with tales that astound
Of beamers and yorkers and players well hung
On summers evenings their praises are sung.
Nothing gives quite as much pleasure
As the craic, the fun, sounds of bat on leather
A hot summers day, the shout of HOWZAT
It just cannot get better than that.
Waking spectators from their cozy snooze.
“Well just a half then, we’ve nothing to lose”
It really doesn’t matter, win, lose or draw.
Cricket’s the game, we truly adore.
6. Welcome Back
by Aditya Krishnan
Welcome back o boys in blue,
Went like heroes & back without a clue,
Over world cups, performance has been bad,
Nevertheless you will get time for another ad,
Hope you enjoyed a wonderful holiday,
As year on year there are many such days,
Listless & spineless you have been,
The cup is nowhere to be seen,
Selling false hopes & dreams are a norm,
Everything has disappeared including your form,
A billion play still a worthy eleven is to be found,
Stop money minting leagues is doing the rounds.
7. A Visit
by Margaret Atwood
Gone are the days
when you could walk on water.
When you could walk.
The days are gone.
Only one day remains,
the one you’re in.
The memory is no friend.
It can only tell you
what you no longer have:
a left hand you can use,
two feet that walk.
All the brain’s gadgets.
Hello, hello.
The one hand that still works
grips, won’t let go.
That is not a train.
There is no cricket.
Let’s not panic.
Let’s talk about axes,
which kinds are good,
the many names of wood.
This is how to build
a house, a boat, a tent.
No use; the toolbox
refuses to reveal its verbs;
the rasp, the plane, the awl,
revert to sullen metal.
Do you recognize anything? I said.
Anything familiar?
Yes, you said.
The bed.
Better to watch the stream
that flows across the floor
and is made of sunlight,
the forest made of shadows;
better to watch the fireplace
which is now a beach.
8. A Cricketer’s Last Boundary
by Michael Ashby
Weeping willows formed an honour guard
For the cricket ball writ with a noble name
A team of ten, which had once been eleven
Would never be the same side again
No bails united the forlorn stumps
Since this wicket had fallen some days ago
And as the bowler delivered to the lone batsman
The hushed crowd willed a six to go
The magical sound… of leather on willow
The sweet smell… of freshly cut grass
The cricketer… crossing the last boundary
To a third innings that would forever last
Famous Cricket Poems
Cricket has been the subject of many famous poems over the years. In this category, we celebrate the enduring legacy of these famous poems about cricket.
1. The Greatest Cricketer!
by Khadim Hussain
I am the greatest cricket in the world,
Six foot six and handsome to cricketing boot.
I am the greatest cricketer in the world,
Better than you!
I score double centuries before lunch
And not a hair out of place.
I am the greatest cricketer in the world,
Better than you!
I swing the ball,
I bowl the doorsa, the Chinaman and bouncers too,
I am the greatest cricketer in the world,
Better than you!
I have never dropped a catch,
I have fielded at slip, short leg and boundary too.
I am the greatest cricketer in the world,
Better than you!
I have score a century and
Taken ten wickets in the same match too.
I am the greatest cricketer in the world,
Better than you!
I have done it all,
The highest test score, the fastest century too,
I am the greatest cricketer in the world,
Better than you!
I’ve taught the best,
Lara, Flintoff, Tendukar, McGarth and Brett Lee too.
I am the greatest cricketer in the world,
Better than you!
I’ve played against the greats,
W.G. Grace, Lynwood, Imran, Wasim and Fiery Fred too.
I am the greatest cricketer in the world,
Better than you!
I’ve played at all the best grounds,
The Lords, the Oval, Trent Bridge and Albert Park too,
I am the greatest cricketer in the world,
Better than you!
2. Cricket Love
by Flamey
13 players wearing white
walk into the ground
wearing round hats
the crowd roars
the men holding the bats
with stickers on it
hop into the crease
and asks for middle stick
the bowler walks from the crease
and marks his line
the red ball is thrown to him
the match begins
the sun heats up
but the players stand the whole day
for taking wickets and smashing runs
and for screaming howzzzaattt
3. On the Grasshopper and Cricket
by John Keats
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead:
That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With his delights, for when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost,
The Grasshopper’s among the grassy hills.
4. The Earth Has Many Keys
by Emily Dickinson
The earth has many keys,
Where melody is not
Is the unknown peninsula.
Beauty is nature’s fact.
But witness for her land,
And witness for her sea,
The cricket is her utmost
Of elegy to me.
5. That Wave Which Rocked
by Zebu Mathew
I enjoyed the thrill,
As an ardent fan,
Of that long wait,
Every moment of it,
Relishing with delight,
Fighting hard to stay up front,
Wearing with pride the team jersey,
Bearing his name and number,
In the midst of;
The scorching sun,
The jostling crowd,
The colourful festoons,
The loud beats and whistles,
The mad frenzy.
OMG, it was roars and soars,
The moment the team bus,
Curved into the stadium,
I couldn’t believe my eyes,
For here was he,
Right before us,
The Super Hero of my Dreams and,
The God of the Gentleman’s Game;
For me to treasure for life,
For it was his heart felt love,
His raised hands did us kiss with,
That wave which rocked.
6. Today, Tomorrow, Long Ago and Years to Come
by Anonymous
When yesterday we thought about tomorrow;
It’s strange to think that we just meant today.
Don’t look to days to wipe out stress and sorrow,
The calendar and clock refuse to play.
When I was young these summer days meant cricket
From morning till collapsing into bed.
I’d strive to score some runs or take a wicket
Today I watch professionals instead.
In days to come my grandkids may be players
And I’ll be cheering them with every shot.
But whether they are shooting stars or stayers,
I’m sure that they’ll have talents I have not.
But look at days or years the same thing’s strange
The more things change the less things seem to change!
7. Concerning the Sport of Cricket
by Hans Ostrom
A Cubist concoction of layered planes,
seems cricket. A match progresses
in a stiff-legged imperial ballet
with yachting costumes. Scoring:
inflated like stock markets. Time: flaccid.
There are slap-bats and wee wooden
sticks–so droll! Cricket is just
very, very something–far afield
from clarity but highly ordered,
bright and secretive. Sedate, surreal.
About this sport who knows what to feel?
8. Be My High
by Abode of Scribe
A sensation through the veins
fighting itself to crown the battle
of a 22-yard play.
Within the circle I’m high
like the Barmy Army in cheers.
I bleed for the yellow side
I’m high like the Yorker in line
I fly with the hallucination that says
‘ you are the ABD in town ‘
Behind the boundary line
I’m like the Superman Lynn
who fly so high to reach the in-air-ball
Cricket is in my veins
Addiction I call it,
to move forward and to never give up
Funny Cricket Poems
Cricket can also be a source of humor, and we have a collection of interesting poems about cricket that will make you chuckle and smile. These witty and light-hearted works will remind you that cricket is also a game meant to be enjoyed.
1. The Road to Victory
by Ipshita Chakraborty
In a land of dreams
A little boy
With a stick of wood
His scrawny arms
They swing to shoot.
In a country full
Of hopeful hearts
They stand as one
In whatever else
They have been apart.
A study in saffron
Their eager faces
Their palms of green
Raised to bless
Their sons of soil
And with them
They also toil.
The winning stroke
It blazes through
Victory at last
Has flown to our boys
On golden wings
Where every feather
Was perhaps the stone
From every little boy
In a very small lane
When his scrawny arms
They swung to shoot.
2. Jack the Cricket
by Pink Faerie
Jack the cricket was sneaking around in the dell.
He smelled the pumpkins, they had a ripe smell.
I think I should take one to my cousin Big Mel.
He whispered this to his friend, Miss Trickety Tee Tell.
She was a persnickety lady bug who he thought was swell.
Her pantaloons were lacy, trimmed with a pearl and bell.
She sneaked glances at Jack, the cricket, from the farmer’s dell.
I think he’s a keeper, she confided to her cousin, Big Mel.
3. Thirst
by Sohom Gupta
All the streets were dry,
A cricket, in obeisance
Let out a grim cry.
Inspirational Cricket Poems
In this category, we have collected a selection of cricket poems that celebrate the game’s deeper spirit of sportsmanship and inspire us to be our best selves.
1. The Heart of a Champion
by Aditya Jha
In Delhi’s dusty streets he played,
A youth with vision and goals to upgrade,
With bat in hand and ball in flight,
He practiced day and night with pure delight.
The odds were against him, it seemed,
Yet he pursued his dream with ardor and gleam,
He never faltered, he never did surrender,
For he had the strength to win and endure.
The path was arduous, the journey long,
But he pressed on with fortitude and song,
With every match he played with passion and zeal,
His brilliance and ardor began to reveal.
From local grounds to national fame,
His name echoed in the annals of acclaim,
With bat in hand and heart on sleeve,
He brought honor to his nation and achieved.
So let this be a lesson to one and all,
Dream big, work hard, and stand tall,
No matter where you come from or what you do,
With grit and determination, you can make your dream come true.
2. Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.
3. Just Not Cricket
by Kenny W
By All Saints Church, looking across the village green
Stands the reverend vicar, eyeing the new pavilion –
Wondering why his lead roof, cannot get the funding;
Is it that the cricket club are much more cunning?
Whilst he collects little in his collection plate
They score sixes and fours, catching runs of fate
Giving them money to do as they please,
Whilst God’s House sinks to its knees:
He prays to above and rings the bells –
A Testing time for him you can truly tell
Oh to have new beginnings
Just a chance for an extra Innings
4. Dreams
by Dreams
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
5. Life Is a Cricket Match
by Md Shahadat Hossain
Life is a cricket match
If you don’t do bat in time
You may be out by catch.
Short Cricket Poems
Short cricket poems are perfect for capturing the essence of the game in a few lines. In this category, we have collected a selection of short poetries about cricket that pack a punch and leave a lasting impression.
1. The Pleiads
by John B. Tabb
“Who are ye with clustered light,
Little Sisters seven?”
“Crickets, chirping all the night
On the hearth of heaven.”
2. Slow Bowled
by Kenny W
It’s been over an hour
since the last wicket,
Howzat for a day out –
at the boring ol’ cricket.
3. To a Cricket
by William Cox Bennett
Voice of summer, keen and shrill,
Chirping round my winter fire,
Of thy song I never tire,
Weary others as they will,
For thy song with summer’s filled—
Filled with sunshine, filled with June;
Firelight echo of that noon
Heard in fields when all is stilled
In the golden light of May,
Bringing scents of new-mown hay,
Bees, and birds, and flowers away,
Prithee, haunt my fireside still,
Voice of summer, keen and shrill.
4. Cricket T20
by anolderambler
a blaze of glory
bowlers marauding
torn grass blades ball-ridden
lost amidst an everlong green morning
5. ‘T was Later When the Summer Went
by Emily Dickinson
‘T was later when the summer went
Than when the cricket came,
And yet we knew that gentle clock
Meant nought but going home.
‘T was sooner when the cricket went
Than when the winter came,
Yet that pathetic pendulum
Keeps esoteric time.
6. Forest Cricket Chirps
by Sherry Anne
forest cricket chirps
hot summer nights’ mating games
white noise soothing sleep
7. Wise Cricket
by Writin Stuffs
Wise Cricket
wise old cricket
turning gray
ancient seer
8. Melbourne Cricket Ground
by Flamey
with lush greenery
a man holding the pipe with flowing water
the tractor running over the brown pitch
the cricket ground is my favourite
Long Cricket Poems
For those who love to delve deep into the game, we have a selection of long poetries about cricket that explore the game’s many thrills and setbacks. These epic works are sure to leave you spellbound.
1. A Reminiscence of Cricket
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Once in my heyday of cricket,
One day I shall ever recall!
I captured that glorious wicket,
The greatest, the grandest of all.
Before me he stands like a vision, Bearded and burly and brown,
A smile of good humoured derision
As he waits for the first to come down.
A statue from Thebes or from Knossos,
A Hercules shrouded in white,
Assyrian bull-like colossus,
He stands in his might.
With the beard of a Goth or a Vandal,
His bat hanging ready and free,
His great hairy hands on the handle,
And his menacing eyes upon me.
And I – I had tricks for the rabbits,
The feeble of mind or eye,
I could see all the duffer’s bad habits
And where his ruin might lie.
The capture of such might elate one,
But it seemed like one horrible jest
That I should serve tosh to the great one,
Who had broken the hearts of the best.
Well, here goes! Good Lord, what a rotter!
Such a sitter as never was dreamt;
It was clay in the hands of the potter,
But he tapped it with quiet contempt.
The second was better – a leetle;
It was low, but was nearly long-hop;
As the housemaid comes down on the beetle
So down came the bat with a chop.
He was sizing me up with some wonder,
My broken-kneed action and ways;
I could see the grim menace from under
The striped peak that shaded his gaze.
The third was a gift or it looked it-
A foot off the wicket or so;
His huge figure swooped as he hooked it,
His great body swung to the blow.
Still when my dreams are night-marish,
I picture that terrible smite,
It was meant for a neighboring parish,
Or any place out of sight.
But – yes, there’s a but to the story –
The blade swished a trifle too low;
Oh wonder, and vision of glory!
It was up like a shaft from a bow.
Up, up like a towering game bird,
Up, up to a speck in the blue,
And then coming down like the same bird,
Dead straight on the line that it flew.
Good Lord, it was mine! Such a soarer
Would call for a safe pair of hands;
None safer than Derbyshire Storer,
And there, face uplifted, he stands
Wicket keep Storer, the knowing,
Wary and steady of nerve,
Watching it falling and growing
Marking the pace and curve.
I stood with my two eyes fixed on it,
Paralysed, helpless, inert;
There was ‘plunk’ as the gloves shut upon it,
And he cuddled it up to his shirt.
Out – beyond question or wrangle!
Homeward he lurched to his lunch!
His bat was tucked up at an angle,
His great shoulders curved to a hunch.
Walking he rumbled and grumbled,
Scolding himself and not me;
One glove was off, and he fumbled,
Twisting the other hand free
Did I give Storer the credit
The thanks he so splendidly earned?
It was mere empty talk if I said it,
For Grace had already returned.
2. The Cricket’s Story
by Emma Huntington Nason
The high and mighty lord of Glendare,
The owner of acres both broad and fair,
Searched, once on a time, his vast domains,
His deep, green forest, and yellow plains,
For some rare singer, to make complete
The studied charms of his country-seat;
But found, for all his pains and labors,
No sweeter songster than had his neighbors.
Ah, what shall my lord of the manor do?
He pondered the day and the whole night through.
He called on the gentry of hill-top and dale;
And at last on Madame the Nightingale,—
Inviting, in his majestical way,
Her pupils to sing at his grand soiree,
That perchance among them my lord might find
Some singer to whom his heart inclined.
What wonder, then, when the evening came,
And the castle gardens were all aflame
With the many curious lights that hung
O’er the ivied porches, and flared among
The grand old trees and the banners proud,
That many a heart beat high and loud,
While the famous choir of Glendare Bog,
Established and led by the Brothers Frog,
Sat thrumming as hoarsely as they were able,
In front of the manager’s mushroom table!
The overture closed with a crash—then, hark!
Across the stage comes the sweet-voiced Lark.
She daintily sways, with an airy grace,
And flutters a bit of gossamer lace,
While the leafy alcove echoes and thrills
With her liquid runs and lingering trills.
Miss Goldfinch came next, in her satin gown,
And shaking her feathery flounces down,
With much expression and feeling sung
Some “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” in a foreign tongue;
While to give the affair a classic tone,
Miss Katydid rendered a song of her own,
In which each line closed as it had begun,
With some wonderful deed which she had done.
Then the Misses Sparrow, so prim and set,
Twittered and chirped through a long duet;
And poor little Wren, who tried with a will,
But who couldn’t tell “Heber” from “Ortonville,”
Unconscious of sarcasm, piped away
And courtesied low o’er a huge bouquet
Of crimson clover-heads, culled by the dozen,
By some brown-coated, plebeian cousin.
But you should have heard the red Robin sing
His English ballad, “Come, beautiful Spring!”
And Master Owlet’s melodious tune,
“O, meet me under the silvery moon!”
Then, as flighty Miss Humming-bird didn’t care
To sing for the high and mighty Glendare,
The close of the evening’s performance fell
To the fair young Nightingale, Mademoiselle.
Ah! the wealth of each wonderful note
That came from the depths of her tiny throat!
She carolled, she trilled, and she held her breath,
Till she seemed to hang at the point of death:
She ran the chromatics through every key,
And ended triumphant on upper C;
Airing the graces her mother had taught her
In a manner quite worthy of Madame’s daughter.
But his lordship glared down the leafy aisle
With never so much as a nod or smile,
Till, out in the shade of a blackberry thicket,
He all of a sudden spied little Miss Cricket;
And, roused from his gloom, like an angry bat,
He sternly demanded, “Who is that?”
“Miss Cricket, my lord, may it please you so,
A charity scholar—ahem!—you know—
Quite worthy, of course, but we couldn’t bring”—
Thundered His Mightiness, “Let her sing!”
The Nightingale opened her little eyes
Extremely wide in her blank surprise;
But catching a glimpse of his lordship’s rage,
Led little Miss Cricket upon the stage,
Where she modestly sang, in her simple measures,
Of “Home, sweet Home,” and its humble pleasures.
And the lord of Glendare cried out in his glee,
“This little Miss Cricket shall sing for me!”
Of course, of comment there was no need;
But the world said, “Really!” and “Ah, indeed!”
Yet, notwithstanding, we find it true
As his lordship does will the neighbors do;
So this is the way, as the legends tell,
In the very beginning it befell
That the Crickets came, in the evening’s gloom,
To sing at our hearths of “Home, sweet Home.”
3. Nature Study
by Craig Raine
All the lizards are asleep–
perched pagodas with tiny triangular tiles,
each milky lid a steamed-up window.
Inside, the heart repeats itself like a sleepy gong,
summoning nothing to nothing.
In winter time, the zoo reverts to metaphor,
God’s poetry of boredom:
the cobra knits her Fair-Isle skin,
rattlers titter over the same joke.
All of them endlessly finish spaghetti.
The python runs down like a spring,
and time stops on some ancient Sabbath.
Pythagorean bees are shut inside the hive,
which hymns and hums like Sunday chapel–
drowsy thoughts in a wrinkled brain.
The fire’s gone out–
crocodiles lie like wet beams,
cross-hatched by flames that no one can remember.
Grasshoppers shiver, chafe their limbs
and try to keep warm,
crouching on their marks perpetually.
The African cricket is trussed like a cold chicken:
the sneeze of movement returns it to the same position,
in the same body.
There is no change.
The rumple-headed lion has nowhere to go
and snoozes in his grimy combinations.
A chaise lounge with missing castors,
the walrus is stuck forever on his rock.
Sleepily, the seals play crib,
scoring on their upper lips.
The chimps kill fleas and time,
sewing nothing to nothing
Five o’clock–perhaps.
Vultures in their shabby Sunday suits
fidget with broken umbrellas,
while the ape beats his breast
and yodels out repentance.
Their feet are an awful dream of bunions–
but the buffalo’s brazil nut bugle-horns
can never sound reveille.
4. To Be Amused
by Henry Lawson
You ask me to be gay and glad
While lurid clouds of danger loom,
And vain and bad and gambling mad,
Australia races to her doom.
You bid me sing the light and fair,
The dance, the glance on pleasure’s wings –
While you have wives who will not bear,
And beer to drown the fear of things.
A war with reason you would wage
To be amused for your short span,
Until your children’s heritage
Is claimed for China by Japan.
The football match, the cricket score,
The “scraps”, the tote, the mad’ning Cup –
You drunken fools that evermore
“To-morrow morning” sober up!
I see again with haggard eyes,
The thirsty land, the wasted flood;
Unpeopled plains beyond the skies,
And precious streams that run to mud;
The ruined health, the wasted wealth,
In our mad cities by the seas,
The black race suicide by stealth,
The starved and murdered industries!
You bid me make a farce of day,
And make a mockery of death;
While not five thousand miles away
The yellow millions pant for breath!
But heed me now, nor ask me this –
Lest you too late should wake to find
That hopeless patriotism is
The strongest passion in mankind!
You’d think the seer sees, perhaps,
While staring on from days like these,
Politeness in the conquering Japs,
Or mercy in the banned Chinese!
I mind the days when parents stood,
And spake no word, while children ran
From Christian lanes and deemed it good
To stone a helpless Chinaman.
I see the stricken city fall,
The fathers murdered at their doors,
The sack, the massacre of all
Save healthy slaves and paramours –
The wounded hero at the stake,
The pure girl to the leper’s kiss –
God, give us faith, for Christ’s own sake
To kill our womankind ere this.
I see the Bushman from Out Back,
From mountain range and rolling downs,
And carts race on each rough bush track
With food and rifles from the towns;
I see my Bushmen fight and die
Amongst the torn blood-spattered trees,
And hear all night the wounded cry
For men! More men and batteries!
I see the brown and yellow rule
The southern lands and southern waves,
White children in the heathen school,
And black and white together slaves;
I see the colour-line so drawn
(I see it plain and speak I must),
That our brown masters of the dawn
Might, aye, have fair girls for their lusts!
With land and life and race at stake –
No matter which race wronged, or how –
Let all and one Australia make
A superhuman effort now.
Clear out the blasting parasites,
The paid-for-one-thing manifold,
And curb the goggled “social-lights”
That “scorch” to nowhere with our gold.
Store guns and ammunition first,
Build forts and warlike factories,
Sink bores and tanks where drought is worst,
Give over time to industries.
The outpost of the white man’s race,
Where next his flag shall be unfurled,
Make clean the place! Make strong the place!
Call white men in from all the world!
5. The Little Boy to the Cricket
by Hannah Flagg Gould
I have thee now! my brisk new-comer,
Sounding thy lay to departing Summer;
And I’ll take thee up from thy bed of grass,
And carry thee home to a house of glass;
Where thy slender limbs and the faded green
Of thy close-made coat can all be seen.
For I long to know if the cricket sings,
Or plays the tune with his gauzy wings;
To bring that shrill-toned pipe to light,
Which kept me awake so long, last night,
That I told the hours by the lazy clock,
Till I heard the crow of the noisy cock;
When, tossing and turning, at length I fell
To a sleep so strange, that the dream I’ll tell.
Methought, on a flowery bank I lay,
By a beautiful stream; and watched the play
Of the sparkling waters, that fled so fast,
I could not count the waves that passed.
But I marked the things they were carrying by;
And a neat little skiff first caught my eye.
‘T was woven of reeds, and its sides were bound
By a tender vine, that had clasped it round;
And spreading within, had made it seem
A basket of leaves, borne down by the stream:
And the skiff had neither sail nor oar;
But a bright little boy stood up, and bore,
On his out-stretched hands, a wreath so gay,
It looked like a crown for the queen of May.
And while he was going, I heard him sing,
“Seize the garland of passing Spring!”
But I dared not reach—for the bank was steep;
And he bore it away to the far-off deep!
Then came a lady—her eye was bright—
She was young and fair; and her bark was light.
Its mast was a living tree, that spread
Its boughs for a sail, o’er the lady’s head;
And some of the fruits had just begun
To flush, on the side that was next the sun;
And some with the crimson streak were stained,
While others their size had not yet gained.
She said, as she passed—”Oh! who can insure
The fruits of Summer to get mature?
For, fast as the waters beneath me, flowing,
Beyond recall, I’m going! I’m going!”
I turned my eye, and beheld another,
That seemed as she might be Summer’s mother.
She looked more grave; and her cheek was tinged
With a deeper brown; her bark was fringed
With the tasseled heads of the wheaten sheaves
Along its sides—and the yellow leaves,
That covered the deck, concealed a throng
Of crickets,—I knew by their choral song.
At Autumn’s feet lay the golden corn,
And her hands were raised to invert a horn,
That was filled with a sweet and mellow store,
And the purple clusters were hanging o’er.
She bade me seize on the fruit, that should last,
When the harvest was gone, and Autumn had past!
But, when I had paused to make the choice,
I saw no bark! and I heard no voice!
Then, I looked on a sight that chilled my blood;
‘T was a mass of ice, where an old man stood
On his frozen raft; while his shriveled hand
Had clinched, as a staff by which to stand,
A whitened branch that the blast had broke
From the lifeless trunk of an aged oak.
The icicles hung from the naked limb,
And the old man’s eye was sunk and dim.
But his scattering locks were silver bright,
And his beard with the gathering frost was white.
The tears congealed on his furrowed cheek,
His garb was thin, and the winds were bleak.
He faintly uttered, while drawing near,
“Winter, the death of the short-lived year,
Can yield thee nought, as I downward tend
To the boundless sea, where the seasons end.
But I trust from others, who’ve gone before,
Thou ‘st clothed thy form, and supplied thy store;
And now, what tidings am I to bear
Of thee,—for I shall be questioned there?”
I asked my mother, who o’er me bent,
What all this show of the seasons meant?
She said ‘t was a picture of life, I saw;
And the useful moral myself must draw!
I awoke—and found that thy song was stilled,
And the sun with his beams my room had filled!
But I think, my cricket, I long shall keep
In mind the dream of my morning sleep!
Cricket Poems That Rhyme
Rhyming poems have a musical quality that captures the rhythms of the game. In this category, we have a selection of poems about cricket with rhyming words, capturing the cadence and spirit of the game.
1. The Last Cricket
by Christopher Morley
When the bulb of the moon with white fire fills
And dead leaves crackle under the feet,
When men roll kegs to the cider mills
And chestnuts roast on every street;
When the night sky glows like a hollow shell
Of lustered emerald and pearl,
The kilted cricket knows too well
His doom. His tiny bagpipes skirl.
Quavering under the polished stars
In stubble, thicket, and frosty copse
The cricket blows a few choked bars,
And puts away his pipe—and stops.
2. The Cricket
by William Cowper
Little inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Wheresoe’er be thine abode
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.
Thus thy praise shall be expressed,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curious snout,
With what vermin else infest
Every dish, and spoil the best;
Frisking thus before the fire,
Thou hast all thy heart’s desire.
Though in voice and shape they be
Formed as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;
Theirs is but a summer’s song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.
Neither night nor dawn of day
Puts a period to thy play:
Sing then—and extend thy span
Far beyond the date of man;
Wretched man, whose years are spent
In repining discontent,
Lives not, aged though he be,
Half a span, compared with thee.
3. Cricket Cacophonies
by Joctopus
As Sun painted Earth in its farewell shades,
Children armed with enthusiasm in spades,
Marched one last time onto cricket field,
Their laughter conquering warm air and void.
Only few inches taller than wooden wicket
They surveyed a ground fenced with thicket.
Medley of sweet voices, though little tired,
Mixed well with songs of distant songbird.
All were in position, awaiting first ball.
Batsman tapping bat endlessly on red soil,
Unsure feet rustling and jostling around,
Shoes of sprinting bowler thudding into ground.
When ball swooshes past a narrowly missing blade,
It takes long time for collective sighs to fade.
But Ball’s yearning to caress bat ends soon,
Carrying memories, it races uttering a croon.
As we leave children and their innocence,
And a cricket field echoing sounds of happiness,
Soon there will be only deafening silence,
Seeking another melody with everlasting penance.
4. On Having Given Up Cricket
by Michael Laskey
I shall play cricket in heaven
in return for the afternoons
gladly given to the other
pleasure of other’s leisure.
I shall walk, without haste, to the wicket
and nod to the angels kitted
in their whites waiting to discern
the kind of batspirit I am.
And one stroke in heaven, one dream
of a cover drive will redeem
every meeting of bat
and ball I’ve done without.
And I’ll bowl too, come on to bowl
leg-breaks with such control
of flight and slight changes of pace
that one over will efface
the faint regret I now feel.
But best of all I shall field:
alert in the heavenly deep,
beyond the boundary of sleep.
5. The Lake Isle of Innisfree
by William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
Cricket Poems for Kids
Cricket is a game for all ages. These fun and engaging cricket poems for children will introduce them to the joys of cricket and inspire a love of the game that will last a lifetime.
1. Nana Smiling
by Davidlind
old lawn stretching far
into the trees
little forest paths
grandparents around
birds splashing
in their circular bath
tiny raindrops
mist so fine
wait the shower passes
his eleven year old mind
planning croquet play
wi-fi not invented yet
enjoying family day
nana, pop, auntie too
croquet balls are flying
not focusing on wickets
this is physics try it!
sending balls
into the thicket
little dickens Daniel
all the leaves bend down
billions of water beads
microscopic towns.
Scratches poison ivy too
Dan is having fun
testing love
from all his people
leaving one by one
under the cellar door
blue and red yellow
missing green or black maybe
croquet balls and mallets.
Dan is tottering
in the weeds
looking for them now
Nana digging dandelions
smiling near the ground
in the musty basement
scarred mallet in hand
wondering where
they all have gone
wistful remembering them.
2. Yard Cricket
by Ron Marsh
On pleasant summer afternoons,
My dad and I play cricket.
The dog he loves to chase the ball,
So he’s behind the wicket.
Our yard is small,
And so the ball
Is not hit very far.
But if we hit a window,
We cop a blast from ma.
I hit a whopping six some days.
That’s when it goes next door.
And if the neighbour gets upset,
We take that off the score.
When dad is batting I get scared.
I wish my gloves were leather.
He hits them fast, and most get past,
As I clap my hands together
3. The Ant and the Cricket
by Anonymous
A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing
Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring,
Began to complain, when he found that at home
His cupboard was empty and winter was come.
Not a crumb to be found
On the snow-covered ground;
Not a flower could he see,
Not a leaf on a tree:
“Oh, what will become,” says the cricket, “of me?”
At last by starvation and famine made bold,
All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold,
Away he set off to a miserly ant,
To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant
Him shelter from rain:
A mouthful of grain
He wished only to borrow,
He’d repay it to-morrow:
If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow.
Says the ant to the cricket, “I’m your servant and friend,
But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend;
But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by
When the weather was warm?” Said the cricket, “Not I.
My heart was so light
That I sang day and night,
For all nature looked gay.”
“You sang, sir, you say?
Go then,” said the ant, “and dance winter away.”
Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket
And out of the door turned the poor little cricket.
Though this is a fable, the moral is good:
If you live without work, you must live without food.
4. A Cricket
by Mihaela Pirjol
You, strange creature, cricket green!
When I first saw you, —I froze with fear!
But then, I heard your ‘creak-creak’ voice
On a summer day, and I rejoiced.
Now, every time you ‘creak-creak’ sing:
So joyful are the months of spring!
Dandelions sway in harmony,
And to me, —it’s the sweetest melody!
5. Bat-Ball
by Tapan Avasthi
Bat and Ball are my favorite tools.
They help me play with my own super rules.
Every evening at five o’clock,
My best friend is at the door to give a knock.
My friend keeps a lucky coin in his pocket,
We flip it to decide our roles for today’s match of cricket.
The winner gets to bat first,
But my luck with the coin is I think — the worst.
In the ground, there is a big mango tree,
We use it as our wicket for free.
We have only one ball to play,
So, hitting a long six means, you are done for the day.
At home, when we are all alone,
Math book is our bat’s clone.
With napkins or tissues, we make our paper ball,
It’s so light in weight and does no damage when hit on the wall.
Who needs to run between the wickets.
When we can tag all scores with objects such as baskets.
My friend likes to challenge me at diving,
So, we even have a rule of giving out for one-tip one-hand catching.
On Sundays, we want to play this game all day long,
But mom-dad says its totally wrong.
One day I’ll be like M S Dhoni — strong and big,
Then, I guess there will be no stopping.
6. The Silly Cricket
by Meera Joshi
A silly young cricket
Sat on a wicket
Singing all summer long
He strummed his guitar
And danced all the while
Other creatures were busy
Gathering their pile
Soon winter came
And he began to complain
For he hadn’t a morsel to nibble on.
So off he went
In the wind and rain
To the little black ants
For a mouthful of grain.
But ants don’t lend
They don’t borrow
“You should have worked, “they said in sorrow.
7. Gully Cricket
by Anonymous
Those summer afternoons
Dusty streets, broken windows,
Sweaty palms, parched throats,
Yet, no one inside their homes.
No, it wasn’t a game we practiced,
‘Tis a Religion that we worshipped,
Gods for us, the various players,
An ode to them, the runs we scored.
Three bricks were three wickets for us,
A tennis ball our prized possession,
The owner of the bat, the first to play,
But still batting our sole obsession.
Those summer memories,
Are now our cherished stories,
‘Gully Cricket’ still beats in our heart,
Even when IPL has become our life’s part.
When India will play for the World Cup,
And we will watch in trepidation,
Each win will be a reminder of old times,
Of the old streets that made these players,
Of each window that broke in celebration
Final Thoughts
Cricket poems are a wonderful way to celebrate the game of cricket and its enduring appeal.
From the best and most famous cricket poems to funny, inspirational, short, long, rhyming, and kid-friendly cricket poems, this collection offers something for every cricket lover.
We hope that these poems for cricket have inspired you to explore the many dimensions of cricket and to appreciate the game’s cultural and literary heritage.
We would love it if you leave a comment below and share your own favorite cricket poems or cricket memories.
Let’s celebrate the game of cricket and the joy it brings to millions of fans around the world!
