Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet. From the ripple to run over in its mirth

Once more on my adventure brave and new.

A people is but the attempt of many To rise to the completer life of one; And those who live as models for the mass Are singly of more value than they all.

How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark Autumn evenings come, And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life’s November too! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O’er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose!

I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive,- what time, what circuit first, I ask not; but unless God send his hail Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time.

If thou tastest a crust of bread, thou tastest all the stars and all the heavens.

The trouble that most of us find with the modern matched sets of clubs is that they don't really seem to know any more about the game than the old ones did.