Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

How is it that you live, and what is it you do?

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.