by Alfred Edward Housman (1859 - 1936)
To an athlete dying young
Language: English
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.
Confirmed with Untermeyer, Louis, Modern British Poetry, New York, Harcourt, Brace and Howe, 1920; Bartleby.com, 1999. http://www.bartleby.com/103/32.html
Authorship:
- by Alfred Edward Housman (1859 - 1936), "To an athlete dying young", appears in A Shropshire Lad, no. 19, first published 1896 [author's text checked 2 times against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2008-12-12
Line count: 28
Word count: 171