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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FIGHTING RACE [FEBRUARY 16, 1898] by JOSEPH IGNATIUS CONSTANTINE CLARKE THE CAGED GOLDFINCH by THOMAS HARDY THE FOOL'S PRAYER by EDWARD ROWLAND SILL A PENNY'S WORTH OF POESY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS EFFICIENCY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS ON SEEING THE SUN SHINE ... MY WINDOW FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THE YEAR by LUCY AIKEN |