THE INVESTITURE
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od with a Roll of Honour in His handSits welcoming the heroes who have died,While sorrowless angels ranked on either sideStand easy in Elysium's meadow-land.Then _you_ come shyly through the garden gate,Wearing a blood-soaked bandage on your head;And God says something kind because you're dead,And homesick, discontented with your fate. If I were there we'd snowball Death with skulls;Or ride away to hunt in Devil's WoodWith ghosts of puppies that we walked of old.But you're alone; and solitude annulsOur earthly jokes; and strangely wise and goodYou roam forlorn along the streets of gold.
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