Game Called.
Across the field of play
the dusk has come,
the hour is late.
The fight is done and lost or won,
the player files out through the gate.
The tumult dies,
the cheer is hushed,
the stands are bare,
the park is still.
But through the night there shines the light,
home beyond the silent hill.

Game Called.
Where in the golden light
the bugle rolled the reveille.
The shadows creep where night falls deep,
and taps has called the end of play.
The game is done,
the score is in,
the final cheer and jeer have passed.
But in the night,
beyond the fight,
the player finds his rest at last.

Game Called.
Upon the field of life
the darkness gathers far and wide,
the dream is done,
the score is spun
that stands forever in the guide.
Nor victory,
nor yet defeat
is chalked against the players name.
But down the roll,
the final scroll,
shows only how he played the game.

Grantland Rice
The Fireside Book of Baseball

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