Soft rustling sounds from every door -
Already bathed in sweat from fear,
In dressing-gown, with hair on end,
Scarce one look at the clock we send.
In cellars many lights are lit.
We’re used to forgetting jerseys from our kit,
But a lack of socks or trousers shows
the man whose dream still had him in its throes.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipQWz1GZBnY-jI18V2WPNO5qD_gMb34vJq8GPXIEWy3IxJBlREUD0FLnNv0BIFdSPoPiS5RVGzbzhLLn5wCvzZoWibZucgKGBtP3dpfzYNvHJNTFO7phZR2CQhLZGGbQRjq-tBtxcFPlM/s320/b_it.gif)