THE Pessimist sits glumly in the stand, Or growls and growls, perchance, upon the bleachers— A look of misery, a glooming scowl, Ever pervades his sad and anguished features. The home club may be five runs to the good, And yet his cup of sorrow still is brimming— He knows that we will lose it in the ninth, Or else—to-morrow we will get a trimming! The Optimist keeps chuckling through the game— Apparently, to him, not one thing matters— He doesn't worry when our pitchers get A fusillading from the hostile batters. The home team may be six runs to the bad, And yet this fellow shows no grief or sorrow— He knows that we will win it at the finish, And, if we don't—we'll surely win to-morrow! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: IN ABSENCE FROM BECCHINA by CECCO ANGIOLIERI DA SIENA TO THE RIVER CHARLES by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SYSTEM by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON IDYLLS OF THE KING: DEDICATION by ALFRED TENNYSON ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TO THE RETURNED GIRLS by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE MORAL FABLES: THE TRIAL OF THE FOX by AESOP |