How do I love thee? Let me count the strokes.
      I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
      My ball can reach when sailing out of sight
      For the end of rounds and ideal shots.
      I love to the level of every player’s
      Most quiet need, by sun and failing light.
      I love thee freely, as men strive for greens.
      I love thee purely, as they turn from rough.
      I love thee with the passion put to use
      In my old clubs, and with my hacker’s faith.
      I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
      With my last swing—I love thee with the pars,
      Birdies, bogeys of all my life!
      And if God choose
      I shall but play thee better after death.