Housman

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,        

 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, 

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  

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 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  

Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, 

And find unwithered on its curls 

The garland briefer than a girl's.

Housman, A. “To an Athlete Dying Young.” British Literature. Ed. Ronald A. Horton. 2^nd ed. Greenville, SC: BJU Press, 2003. 678. Print.