I've trod the links with many a man, And played him club for club; 'Tis scarce a year since I began And I am still a dub. But this I've noticed as we strayed Along the bunkered way, No one with me has ever played As he did yesterday. It makes no difference what the drive, Together as we walk, Till we up to the ball arrive, I get the same old talk: "To-day there's something wrong with me, Just what I cannot say. Would you believe I got a three For this hole -- yesterday?" I see them top and slice a shot, And fail to follow through, And with their brassies plough the lot, The very way I do. To six and seven their figures run, And then they sadly say: "I neither dubbed nor foozled one When I played -- yesterday." I have no yesterdays to count, No good work to recall; Each morning sees hope proudly mount, Each evening sees it fall. And in the locker room at night, When men discuss their play, I hear them and I wish I might Have seen them -- yesterday. Oh, dear old yesterday! What store Of joys for men you hold! I'm sure there is no day that's more Remembered or extolled. I'm off my task myself a bit, My mind has run astray; I think, perhaps, I should have writ These verses -- yesterday. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH (OWEN ROE) O'NEIL by THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS SORROW by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! by ISAAC MCLELLAN JR. VERSES, SUGGESTED BY THE FUNERAL OF AN EPITAPH IN BURY CHURCH-YARD by BERNARD BARTON STRANGE PERSPECTIVE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN ON THE MEANING OF THE WORD 'WRATH' AS APPLIED TO GOD IN SCRIPTURE by JOHN BYROM |