“One of the hardest things in life to accept is a called third strike.”
— Robert Frost (1874-1963)
Whose field this was I used to know. But that was many years ago;
No one will see me stopping here To practice batting in the snow.
The Mudville cranks would think it queer To swing a bat without a sphere;
Have they forgotten what an ache Has trailed that game of yesteryear?
Since ’88 I’ve lain awake
At night to ponder my mistake– To wait on one I could drive deep? Perhaps a bender I could rake….
The snow falls where the wind will sweep, Regrets are wasted while we weep;
So while I swing, the town’s asleep, And still I swing though all must sleep.