Come, Winter, come, and free me from the thrall
Of Golf! Bestrew the lureful links with snow:
For they that are condemned to chase the ball
Are hopeless as the Person with the Hoe.
Midsummer form is gone, nor all my play
Can win it back to cancel half a stroke;
The driver’s off, the brassie’s had its day,
The mashie’s blown, my putting is a joke.
And yet I chase the ball around the lot
(He needs must whom the golfing devil drives),
Hoping I may—but knowing well I’ll not—
Pull off a brilliant string of fours and fives.
Sound, Winter, then, “the trumpets of the sky,”
Lock up the links and throw away the key;
Else, like a self-doomed Sisyphus, must I
Pursue this foolish game from tee to tee.