
As Tennyson never wrote, in spring a middle-aged man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of soccer poetry. Some new ones from yesterday (old ones are here: Sideline Poetry | The New Yorker):
(My in-house editor points out that those fields are actually in Kansas, which I knew, but my fingers forgot it when typing on my phone in the High Wind.) And here are a couple more from last week, on a theme. It helps for one of them if you know French, which I don’t:
Honored!