THE shining Cup men set their hearts upon
Is lost to them—or won them; and anon,
Like a good Three set in a bald Three-score,
That Glory gleams a moment—and is gone.
XVII
THINK, in this worn, forlorn old Field of Play,
Whose Green-keepers in turn are Night and Day,
How Champion after Champion with his Pomp
Abode his destin’d Hour and went his way.
