The Hon. Sec.

The flag that hung half-mast to-day

    Seemed animate with being

As if it knew for whom it flew

    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 thyme

    And long extent of fairway.

He knew how on a summer day

    The sea’s deep blue grew deeper,

How evening shadows over Bray

    Made that round hill look steeper.

He knew the ocean mists that rose

    And seemed for ever staying,

When moaned the foghorn from Trevose

    And nobody was playing;

The flip of cards on winter eves,

    The whisky and the scoring,

As trees outside were stripped of leaves

    And heavy seas were roaring.

He died when early April light

    Showed red his garden sally

And under pale green spears glowed white

    His lilies of the valley:

That garden where he used to stand

    And where the robin waited

To fly and perch upon his hand

    And feed till it was sated.

The Times would never have the space

    For Ned’s discreet achievements;

The public prints are not the place

    For intimate bereavements.

A gentle guest, a willing host,

    Affection deeply planted—

It’s strange that those we miss the most

    Are those we take for granted.