The Investiture

GOD with a Roll of Honour in His hand Sits welcoming the heroes who have died, While sorrowless angels ranked on either side Stand 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 Wood With ghosts of puppies that we walked of old. But you’re alone; and solitude annuls Our earthly jokes; and strangely wise and good You roam forlorn along the streets of gold.