Nerves at full stretch, with cool considerate
The golfer strikes, away the white ball flies,
And lost to sight, for all but practised eyes,
Scatters the dew, or runs along the sand.
Now by nice care, and choice of weighted wand,
Mid language strange, “cliques” “bunkers” “puts”
    and “tries,”
The ball, that flew, creeps on, and halting, dies:
Dropped to the tomb towards which its course was
Another course there is, with diverse goals,
Two walk those Links, and neither are agreed:
Love with its angel wish to help and save,
Hate with desire to harm the woman’s seed:
And o’er life’s hill and hollow speed our souls,
By foe and friend close-followed to the grave.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 118)