Читать книгу Base-ball Ballads - Grantland Rice - Страница 6

Table of Contents

Beyond the sleet, across the snows

He did not see the budding rose

That waved its crimson welcome to

An earth of green, a sky of blue,

Nor yet the daffy daffodils

That crowned the valleys and the hills;

The apple blossoms, pink and white,

That drifted into lanes of light;

He did not hear the bluebird sing

Nor yet the south wind whispering

In murmur through the maple trees

That swayed and slanted to the breeze

And harbored on each bending limb

The maker of a woodland hymn—

And yet, like every living thing,

He, too, had drawn his dream of spring.

He saw a gent arrayed in blue

Heave boldly into public view,

And in a fog-horn tenor call

To thousands: “Batter up—play ball!”

He saw a tall guy nod and beck

And then cut one around the neck,

While in a trance the slugger there

Inanely paddled at the air;

He saw the shortstop leave his place

And flag one back of second base

And wing it swiftly on ahead

To where the dashing runner sped;

He saw, before his flashing eye,

The keen outfielder fenceward fly,

And with a mighty effort pull

The drive down with the bases full.

He heard once more the rooters call,

The ringing clash of bat and ball,

The cry of “Belt it on the snout!

Don’t try to bunt there, whale it out!”

The groans and curses, cheers and jeers

Like music tinkled in his ears;

The grandstand rocked and roared in strife,

The howling bleachers leaped to life,

As whooping, jeering, shouting, cheering,

Praying, cursing, pleading, fearing,

Stamping, howling, smiling, growling,

Laughing, weeping, snarling, scowling,

Over city, field, and glen

The Bugland Chorus rang again—

For he, like every other thing,

Had drawn his dream of golden spring.