A FEW more weeks, and Tyrus Cobb will be Just thirty-six, and going past the bend Of middle age—he's OLD, as players count— And yet—who dares to estimate the end Of this tremendous player's long career? Good, so he looks, for many and many a year! Of all the men he played with, in his youth, And called him "fresh kid" and "a lucky dub," Who now remains in service anywhere? Who plays to-day with any big league club? Borne on Time's waves, and tossing to and fro, How many stars has Cobb seen come and go? They said he'd soon wear out—he played too fast— No man could last at such a furious pace— Others played safe—but where shine they to-day? And Cobb remains, a king, a super-ace! But—does Cobb ever think of those who showed Supreme—awhile—then dropped beside the road? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN EPISTLE TO CURIO by MARK AKENSIDE THE TRUIMPH OF ART by JOSEPHINE TURCK BAKER ECLOGUE: THE TIMES by WILLIAM BARNES OLD PLEASURES DESERTED by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE SURVIVAL by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 2 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |