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Citizens Bank Park Upon the Start of Spring Training

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In a spiritual sequel to Truck Day, a frosty ballpark looks towards Summer.

Dusk as both beginning and ending.
Dusk as both beginning and ending.
Dedicated, of course, to Tennyson, and to WetLuzinski, for whom I have a whole new respect.

O Odyssey

With little profits from an unearned ring,
In this still hearth, among these risen flags,
Match'd with an Galapoganian wife, I seat and dole
Unequal passions unto a savage race,
That rosterbate, and sleep, and trade, and know not me.
I cannot join in travel: I will freeze
I, Phillies: All times I have enRoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, tho' never on shore, and when
Vext the champs-would-be: I am become a meme;
For displays of groaning for my hitting heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of brothers
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk fright of battle 'gainst my peers,
Far on the ringing bells of sharpsheer Fishtown.
I am the heart of all that here has met;
Yet all veteran experience is a PRISM wherethro'
Gleams that too-Burrell'd world whose inhibition fades
For ever and forever, this I move.
How dull it is to pause, to yet make an start,
To rest unfurnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were play! Play piled on play
Were all too little, and of one to me.
Little time remains: but every hour is honed
In that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some four years to store and hoard myself,
And this red and white spirit yearning in desire
To follow know-how like a hanging sinker,
Beyond the utmost bound of Ashburn Alley.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the aisle,—
Well-kept of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by split squads to make fit
A rugged people, and thro' soft routines
Subdue them to the useful and the best shapes of their life.
Most helpful is he, centred in the sphere
Of uncounted stats, decent not to fail
In offices of loosening up, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When they are away. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the emblem puffs his tail;
But here gloom the dark, broad streets. Former Mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a July welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Maturity yet hath his honour and his toil;
November closes all: but something ere the ninth,
Some noble note, may yet be sung,
Not unbecoming men that strive with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the docks:
The long winter wanes: the mercury does climb: the creeps
Moan round with many voices. Come, my fanatics,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer Classic.
Point forth, and sitting well disordered smite
The sounding Bravos; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond October, and the baths
Of all the Eastern stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.