A Description
Across the way the park is gay, betimes
Especially when the strolling players come.
They play their parts using rolling carts, upon
Them some, behind them others, striding forth.
When fifth in line, some fret and pine and rave
To speed on through, and no one blinks or thinks
His pique less beneficial to his health,
Though tempers flare, trying not to care at all
Whether they hit the ball or fall behind,
Trudging deep in sand or wading in the pond.
Or blind behind a tree or knoll or stone
Playing gaily, resisting scaly scorn alone,
Each keeps his counsel, to keep his friends,
His eye on the ball lest his look wither all entire.
The scen’ry interests some; others sigh ho hum.
Each picks his sticks to take his licks in turn.
The hapless hooker tilts his frame to straight
The flight of his wayward orb, then blames
The elements, the wind or sunny glare
Or wisps of hair in driving eyes of steel
That ne’er apologize or admit the pain
That out to be a joy to man and boy.