The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the marketplace
Man and boy stood cheering by
And home we brought you shoulder high.
Smart lad to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
Early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than a rose.
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.
And round that early laureled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
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