My clubs are for another now; the years have had the better claim,
For age and slow infirmity have called the halt upon my game.
No more the frosted morning grass beneath a pale September sky,
No more the eager stride to meet the waking day as dawn drew nigh.
The summer heat, the autumn leaves, the robin singing from the thorn,
Will greet the men who follow on as they have greeted every morn.
The course will neither mourn nor pause because one player stays away;
It asks no more than honest hearts who come to spend another day.
I shall remember sweetest still the ringing note of well-struck steel,
The ball that climbed against the wind with all the promise one could feel;
The quiet word, the friendly jest, the comrades gathered at first light,
Who shared the triumph and the loss with equal grace and equal right.
Some days the putts found every cup, the irons flew both long and true;
Some days the rough and waiting sand made mock of all I thought I knew.
Yet never once was time ill-spent, however poor the final score,
For every round repaid the walk and always left me wanting more.
So let these clubs find younger hands that still can answer morning’s call,
To chase the little white-winged hope that sometimes flies and sometimes falls.
I ask no pity for the years; they come alike to great and small,
And every golfer learns at last there is a final round for all.
I leave with thanks for every friend, for every laugh and every mile,
For every dawn upon the tee, for every green and every stile.
The game has given more than scores; it filled the measure of my days,
And I walk home with empty hands, but with my eyes in gentle haze.
(By John Shenton)