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Siegfried Sassoon - David Cleek
Work rating: Low

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