THE time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come, 5
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay, 10
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers 15
After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man. 20
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head 25
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
A. E. Housman
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Navigator--good catch. One of my favorites. Actually two of my favorites: AE Housman and Bill Simmons. Did you read his recent "what if" column? Item #4 which ended with the suggestion that Suns fans should now set themselves on fire? Ouch!!
On this day I must bid my aristocratic counterparts farewell. I shall not go into detail of what has driven me to such action, but it was the topic of Gary’s speech. I have authored a brief, might you say, rebuttal, which can be read here.
Jane Austen (48)
Post a Comment