A. E. Housman(1859–1936)
To an Athlete Dying Young
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.
Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
A n d set you at your threshold d o w n ,
T o w n s m a n of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip b e t i m e s away
From fields w h e r e glory d o e s not stay
A n d early t h o u g h t h e laurel grows
It withers quicker t h a n t h e rose.
Eyes t h e shady night has s h u t
C a n n o t s e e the record cut,broken
A n d s i l e n c e s o u n d s no w o r s e than c h e e r s
After earth has s t o p p e d the ears:
N o w you will not swell the routcrowd
Of lads that w o r e their h o n o u r s out,
Runners w h o m r e n o w n outran
A n d the n a m e died before t h e m a n .
So set, before its e c h o e s fade,
T h e fleet foot on the sill of shade,
A n d hold to the low lintel up
T h e still-defended c h a l l e n g e - c u p .
A n d round that early-laurelled1 h e a d
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find u n w i t h e r e d on its curls
T h e garland briefer than a girl's.