From "The Little Book of Sports". Poetry compiled and edited by Wallace and Frances Rice. published by The Reilly & Britton Co, in 1910.
I offered to type this out in comments to my previous post on this book. Cary Cartter agreed to let me. Here it is...
We are the children of the strong god Thor
We hurl his hammer through the hollow sky;
No task is this for feeble hands to try:
This is the sport that men and gods adore.
A giant race are we, who each in turn
Step in the magic circle's narrow ring
Around our heads the old god's hammer swing,
And send it whirling where the sunbeams burn.
Our fingers twine the handle tightly round,
Firm as a mountain oak we plant our feet,
With one long breath, filling each cell complete,
We lift and swing the dead weight from the ground.
Around our heads we swing with quickening speed,
The hot blood pressing in each swollen vein,
Each muscle corded with its mighty strain,
The handle bending like a river reed.
A step, a turn, and staggering, we hurl
The heavy hammer whistling through the air;
We watch it in the sunbeams fly and flare;
We see it settle with a thud and whirl.
All can not win; our giant game is o'er;
'T is better to be last in such a test,
Than in a little sport to rank the best;
We are the children of the strong god Thor.
~ ~ ~ ~ William Lindsey ~ ~ ~ ~
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