I’ve trod the links with many a man,
    And played him club for club;
’Tis scarce a year since I began
    And I am still a dub.
But this I’ve noticed as we strayed
    Along the bunkered way,
No one with me has ever played
    As he did yesterday.

It makes no difference what the drive,
    Together as we walk,
Till we up to the ball arrive,
    I get the same old talk:
“To-day there’s something wrong with me,
    Just what I cannot say.
Would you believe I got a three
    For this hole—yesterday?”

I see them top and slice a shot,
    And fail to follow through,
And with their brassies plough the lot,
    The very way I do.
To six and seven their figures run,
    And then they sadly say:
“I neither dubbed nor foozled one
    When I played—yesterday!”

I have no yesterdays to count,
    No good work to recall;
Each morning sees hope proudly mount,
    Each evening sees it fall.
And in the locker room at night,
    When men discuss their play,
I hear them and I wish I might
    Have seen them—yesterday.

Oh, dear old yesterday! What store
    Of joys for men you hold!
I’m sure there is no day that’s more
    Remembered or extolled.
I’m off my task myself a bit,
    My mind has run astray;
I think, perhaps, I should have writ
    These verses—yesterday.

More Poems by Edgar Albert Guest