I cannot think that Death will press his claim <br />To snuff you out or put you off your game: <br />You’ll still contrive to play your steady round, <br />Though hurricanes may sweep the dismal ground, <br />And darkness blur the sandy-skirted green <br />Where silence gulfs the shot you strike so clean. <br /> <br />Saint Andrew guard your ghost, old David Cleek, <br />And send you home to Fifeshire once a week! <br />Good fortune speed your ball upon its way <br />When Heaven decrees its mightiest Medal Day; <br />Till saints and angels hymn for evermore <br />The miracle of your astounding score; <br />And He who keeps all players in His sight, <br />Walking the royal and ancient hills of light <br />Standing benignant at the eighteenth hole, <br />To everlasting Golf consigns your soul.<br /><br />Siegfried Sassoon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/david-cleek/
