THERE was a Green for which I found no Tee,
And a blind Bunker which I might not see:
Out of the distant Dark a Voice cries “Fore!”
And then—and then no more of Thee and Me.
XXXI
AS then the Sparrow for his morning Crumb,
Do thou each Morrow to the First Tee come,
And play thy quiet Round, till crusty Age
Condemn thee to a hopeless Dufferdom.
