THE LOST BALL.
Standing one day on the golf-links,
I was weary and ill at ease;
And I baffled and foozled idly
Over the whins and tees.
I know not what I was dreaming,
Or where I was rubbering then;
But I swiped that ball, of a sudden,
With the force of two score men.
It sped through the crimson twilight
Like a shot from a ten-inch gun;
And it passed from my fevered vision
To the realm of the vanished sun;
It chasséed over the bunker,
It caromed hazard and hill;
It went like a thing infernal—
I suppose it is going still.
It shied each perplexing stymie
With infinite nerve and ease;
And bored right on through the landscape
As if it were loath to cease.
I have sought—but I seek it vainly—
That ball of the strenuous pace,
That went from the sole of my niblick
And entered into space.
It may be some blooming caddie
Can sooner or later explain;
It may be that only in heaven
I shall find that ball again.
Smart Set.