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.