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Siegfried Sassoon - David CleekSiegfried Sassoon - David Cleek
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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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