I've trod the links with many a man, <br /> And played him club for club; <br /> 'Tis scarce a year since I began <br /> And I am still a dub. <br /> But this I've noticed as we strayed <br /> Along the bunkered way, <br /> No one with me has ever played <br /> As he did yesterday. <br /> It makes no difference what the drive, <br /> Together as we walk, <br /> Till we up to the ball arrive, <br /> I get the same old talk: <br /> 'To-day there's something wrong with me, <br /> Just what I cannot say. <br /> Would you believe I got a three <br /> For this hole—yesterday?' <br /> <br /> I see them top and slice a shot, <br /> And fail to follow through, <br /> And with their brassies plough the lot, <br /> The very way I do. <br /> To six and seven their figures run, <br /> And then they sadly say: <br /> 'I neither dubbed nor foozled one <br /> When I played—yesterday!' <br /> <br /> I have no yesterdays to count, <br /> No good work to recall; <br /> Each morning sees hope proudly mount, <br /> Each evening sees it fall. <br /> And in the locker room at night, <br /> When men discuss their play, <br /> I hear them and I wish I might <br /> Have seen them—yesterday. <br /> <br /> Oh, dear old yesterday! What store <br /> Of joys for men you hold! <br /> I'm sure there is no day that's more <br /> Remembered or extolled. <br /> I'm off my task myself a bit, <br /> My mind has run astray; <br /> I think, perhaps, I should have writ <br /> These verses—yesterday.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/yesterday-95/
