Revery in a Bunker

DOMESTIC PRODUCTS

GRANTLAND RICE

OFT had I dreamed, in my office musty,

Of shots that whirled from my driver keen;

Of brassie swipes where the blow was lusty,

Down the way of the ancient green;

Of far iron shots from the blade, clear-ringing,

Straight to the line of the guarded cup,

Where the low wind calls through the great oaks, singing,

"You've come to the home hole, fourteen up"!

AND this is the end of my golden dreaming,

Back on guard in the same old sand;

Back on guard with the niblick gleaming,

Held in the grip of my clammy hand.

And the wide, blue sky and the distant spaces,

The waving trees where the song birds flit,

The fairway's green and the open places,

Are lost to sight in this sombre pit.

THIS is the end of my rose-rimmed fancies,

Hoisting sand by the wagon load.

O! the south wind sings and the sparrow dances,

But not for me in my stark abode;

O! the sky is blue where the buds are stirring,

And the birds break forth with the song of June.

But here I wait, with the niblick whirring,

Cursing away through the afternoon.