The flag that hung half-mast
Seemed animate with
As if it knew for who it
And will no more be seeing.
He loved each corner of the links-The stream at the eleventh,
The grey-green bents, the pale sea-pinks,
The prospect from the seventh;
To the ninth tee the uphill climb,
A grass and sandy stairway,
And at the top the scent of
And long extent of fairway.
He knew how on a summer
The sea's deep blue grew deeper,
How evening shadows over
Made that round hill look steeper.
He knew the ocean mists that
And seemed for ever staying,
When moaned the foghorn from
And nobody was playing;
The flip of cards on winter eves,
The whisky and the scoring,
As trees outside were stripped of
And heavy seas were roaring.
He died when early April
Showed red his garden
And under pale green spears glowed
His lilies of the valley;
The garden where he used to
And where the robin
To fly and perch upon his
And feed till it was sated.
The Times would never have the
For Ned's discreet achievements;
The public prints are not the
For intimate bereavements.
A gentle guest, a willing host,
Affection deeply planted -It's strange that those we miss the
Are those we take for granted.
