10 Best Famous Playing The Game Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Playing The Game poems. This is a select list of the best famous Playing The Game poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Playing The Game poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of playing the game poems.

• All Famous Playing The Game Poems

 Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning. 
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig. 
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour. 
Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!" 
Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies. 
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver. 
With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain. 
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.

 "But it isn't playing the game," he said,
 And he slammed his books away;
"The Latin and Greek I've got in my head
 Will do for a duller day."
"Rubbish!" I cried; "The bugle's call
 Isn't for lads from school."
D'ye think he'd listen? Oh, not at all:
 So I called him a fool, a fool.

Now there's his dog by his empty bed,
 And the flute he used to play,
And his favourite bat . . . but Dick he's dead,
 Somewhere in France, they say:
Dick with his rapture of song and sun,
 Dick of the yellow hair,
Dicky whose life had but begun,
 Carrion-cold out there.

Look at his prizes all in a row:
 Surely a hint of fame.
Now he's finished with, -- nothing to show:
 Doesn't it seem a shame?
Look from the window! All you see
 Was to be his one day:
Forest and furrow, lawn and lea,
 And he goes and chucks it away.

Chucks it away to die in the dark:
 Somebody saw him fall,
Part of him mud, part of him blood,
 The rest of him -- not at all.
And yet I'll bet he was never afraid,
 And he went as the best of 'em go,
For his hand was clenched on his broken blade,
 And his face was turned to the foe.

And I called him a fool . . . oh how blind was I!
 And the cup of my grief's abrim.
Will Glory o' England ever die
 So long as we've lads like him?
So long as we've fond and fearless fools,
 Who, spurning fortune and fame,
Turn out with the rallying cry of their schools,
 Just bent on playing the game.

A fool! Ah no! He was more than wise.
 His was the proudest part.
He died with the glory of faith in his eyes,
 And the glory of love in his heart.
And though there's never a grave to tell,
 Nor a cross to mark his fall,
Thank God! we know that he "batted well"
 In the last great Game of all.

 "God said I am tired of kings." -- EMERSON 

God said, "I am tired of kings,"--
But that was a long while ago! 
And meantime man said, "No,--
I like their looks in their robes and rings." 
So he crowned a few more,
And they went on playing the game as before,
Fighting and spoiling things. 

Man said, "I am tired of kings!
Sons of the robber-chiefs of yore,
They make me pay for their lust and their war;
I am the puppet, they pull the strings; 
The blood of my heart is the wine they drink.
I will govern myself for awhile I think, 
And see what that brings!" 

Then God, who made the first remark, 
Smiled in the dark.