I find myself at the three quarters mark in some five or six write-ups, yet feel inclined to republish this early twentieth century poem from the great John Low. It hit just the right spot today.
Give me to play golf on St. Andrews links, on the old course battle-ground of giants and men heroic, where the strong conquer the weak, and the verdict is final.
Give me to play with three others, a sure and courageous man being my partner.
Give me the wind southward blowing, with steady evenness, just fanning our faces.
Give me the sun hardly shining, lighting the grass only to smoothness, not dazzling the eye nor showing pitmarks on the green faces!
Give me the driving, give me the approaching, give me the putting.
Give me the long drives, low and against the wind, the ball hardly rising.
Give me the truly struck ball, breeze-cheating, triumphant.
Give me the strong blow, the blow full of running, refusing to stop for hollow or hillock.
Give me the great drives down wind, high-flying, air-sailing, all dangers carrying, of true line, scarce swerving.
Give me to make strokes of great daring, danger-tempting, hazardous, successful.
Give me to play full drives to the hole-side, reaching the goal with effort.
Give me to watch my drives come to the best point, their strength perfectly ended, their mission justified, their recklessness victoriously resultful.
Give me to have friends faithful as followers, applauding my ventures, sympathetic, excusing all errors.
Give me to play iron shots of great cunning, high, low, sliced, or pulled at command.
Give me to play to the hole long shots with underspin, the ball stopping magically.
Give me to play flat shots skimming the ground, with overspin, plateaux surmounting.
Give me to strike the ball upward from the toe-piece, causing ducking and running.
Give me to play shots intermediate, half-shots and quarter-shots of endless variety.
Give me to putt with the fingers, the ball almost feeling; to putt with music, from heel or toe at will.
Give me to see the true line and make nice calculations, gauging each grass-blade, judging well the distance.
Give me to putt freely, not twisted in body nor doubtful in mind, but confident in everything.
Give me to view the flat sea at intervals through the breaks in the sandhills, of a light blue colour, calm and reposeful, with sails on its surface.
Give me to see the small larks overhead, their wings incessantly moving, no note unharmonious!
Give me to remember fine measures and the words of wise men in my moments of inactivity.
Give me to feel the world all friendly, and life sane and full of joyfulness.
Give me generous opponents, and a match slowly terminating, drawn out to the end of the course, both parties still striving.
Give me the contest well disputed, holes mainly divided, the last putt the victor.
Give me to play the last putt, to play it with cunning, gently and tactfully, the result slowly awaiting.
Give me to see the ball not enter the hole rudely, but drawing near gradually, advancing tardily, lingering, delaying.
Give me to see it rest at the hole-side one moment, vibrating, making my heart vibrate also, causing two beats instead of one.
Give me to see my partner smiling, my opponents well-humoured, not downcast nor jealous.
Give me to have such men often for comrades in golfing, or living, men of brave purpose, high-minded, unselfish.
Giving me these gifts, gifts oft repeated, Golf, I will claim thee my sole recreation.
You can read Low’s classic, Concerning Golf, courtesy of HathiTrust or his Eleven Principles as relayed by the great Tom Simpson in Golfdom, courtesy of Michigan State.
Layman's Hall 
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