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14.4: To an Athlete Dying Young

  • Page ID
  • XIX

    To an Athlete Dying Young

    The time you won your town the race
    We chaired[1] 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,
    Shoulder-high we bring you home,
    And set you at your threshold down,
    Townsman of a stiller town.

    Smart lad, to slip betimes[2] away
    From fields where glory does not stay,
    And early though the laurel[3] grows
    It withers quicker than the rose.

    Eyes the shady night has shut
    Cannot see the record cut[4],
    And silence sounds no worse than cheers
    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.

    So set, before the 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
    Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
    And find unwithered on its curls
    The garland briefer than a girl’s.


    Contributors and Attributions

    1. To place in a chair or on a seat and carry aloft in triumph, as a favourite, a successful competitor.
    2. Early.
    3. Foliage used by the ancient Greeks to crown victors at the Pythian games, hence to crown with laurel, to honour.
    4. Broken.
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