Dusk falls upon the bracken, bents and whins;
The careful green-keeper removes the pins,
To-morrow being Sunday, and the sward
Is freed from gutty and from rubber-cored.
Homeward unchecked by cries of "Fore!" I stroll,
Revolving many problems in my soul,
And marvelling at the mania which bids
Sexagenarians caracole like kids;
Which causes grave and reverend signiors