A.E. Housman

Þetta er kennt í flestum skólum USA

 

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.

  

 

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.

 

 


« Síðasta færsla | Næsta færsla »

Bæta við athugasemd

Ekki er lengur hægt að skrifa athugasemdir við færsluna, þar sem tímamörk á athugasemdir eru liðin.

Innskráning

Ath. Vinsamlegast kveikið á Javascript til að hefja innskráningu.

Hafðu samband