Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967). The Old Huntsman and Other Poems. 1918.

40. David Cleek

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.