The time you won your town the race <br />We chaired you through the market-place; <br />Man and boy stood cheering by, <br />And home we brought you shoulder-high. <br /> <br />To-day, the road all runners come, <br />Shoulder-high we bring you home, <br />And set you at your threshold down, <br />Townsman of a stiller town. <br /> <br />Smart lad, to slip betimes away <br />From fields where glory does not stay <br />And early though the laurel grows <br />It withers quicker than the rose. <br /> <br />Eyes the shady night has shut <br />Cannot see the record cut, <br />And silence sounds no worse than cheers <br />After earth has stopped the ears: <br /> <br />Now you will not swell the rout <br />Of lads that wore their honours out, <br />Runners whom renown outran <br />And the name died before the man. <br /> <br />So set, before its echoes fade, <br />The fleet foot on the sill of shade, <br />And hold to the low lintel up <br />The still-defended challenge-cup. <br /> <br />And round that early-laurelled head <br />Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, <br />And find unwithered on its curls <br />The garland briefer than a girl's.<br /><br />Alfred Edward Housman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-an-athlete-dying-young/
