A THOUSAND lips are lockt; but still in hoar
High-balling Andrew’s Shrine, with “Fore, fore, fore!
Oh, fore!” the Golfer to the Duffer cries,
That reddened cheek of his to redden more.
VII
COME, choose your Ball, and in the fire of Spring
Your Red Coat, and your wooden Putter fling;
The Club of Time has but a little while
To waggle, and the Club is on the swing.
