Henry Walcott Boynton

“ Of Golf be dried—and Life grow all too brief
To top a Ball around the Ladies’ Course!
[Pg 75]
LXXI
YET, ah, that Golf should vanish with the green!
What noble matches Winter might have seen;
And in Old Age what glorious Hazards foil’d,
What Zest of painful Pleasures might have been!
[Pg 76]
LXXII
WOULD but the dim Face of old Winter yield
One glimpse of green, like Youth to Age reveal’d,
Thro’ which once more the failing Limbs might spring
As springs the trampled Herbage of the Field. ”

“ A driving Putter, or a goose-neck’d Cleek—
“Pray, what is Golf then,—and the Golfer what?”
[Pg 65]
LXI
“WHY,” said another, “Some there are who say
That Golf is but a Game that Golfers play,
And some that Life is but a mighty Green,
And Golf the Art to use it day by day.”
[Pg 66]
LXII
“WELL,” murmur’d one, “let whoso make or buy,
All in one Pickle we—like as we lie:
For let the right Good-Fellow come along,
We all may lay the Ball dead by and by.” ”

“ To-morrow’s Slicing will not yield to Prayer:
Play! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Play! for you know not why you go, nor where.
[Pg 57]
LIII
I TELL you this—When, after youth was past,
A kindly Heav’n gave me to Golf at last;
No Freedom but I gladly barter’d for
The satisfying Bond that holds me fast.
[Pg 58]
LIV
AND this I know: there is a Charm about
The quiet State of Golf, tho’ fools may flout,
That with its magic has unlock’d the Door
Of Happiness they only howl without. ”