"renown" poems
In the cold grey light of the sixth of June, in the year of forty-four,
The Empire Larch sailed out from Poole to join with thousands more.
The largest fleet the world had seen, we sailed in close array,
And we set our course for Normandy at the dawning of the day.
There was not one man in all our crew but knew what lay in store,
For we had waited for that day through five long years of war.
We knew that many would not return, yet all our hearts were true,
For we were bound for Normandy, where we had a job to do.
Now the Empire Larch was a deep-sea tug with a crew of thirty-three,
And I was just the galley-boy on my first trip to sea.
I little thought when I left home of the dreadful sights I'd see,
But I came to manhood on the day that I first saw Normandy.
At the Beach of Gold off Arromanches, 'neath the rockets' deadly glare,
We towed our blockships into place and we built a harbour there.
'Mid shot and shell we built it well, as history does agree,
While brave men died in the swirling tide on the shores of Normandy.
Like the Rodney and the Nelson, there were ships of great renown,
But rescue tugs all did their share as many a ship went down.
We ran our pontoons to the shore within the Mulberry's lee,
And we made safe berth for the tanks and guns that would set all Europe free.
For every hero's name that's known, a thousand died as well.
On stakes and wire their bodies hung, rocked in the ocean swell;
And many a mother wept that day for the sons they loved so well,
Men who cracked a joke and cadged a smoke as they stormed the gates of hell.
As the years pass by, I can still recall the men I saw that day
Who died upon that blood-soaked sand where now sweet children play;
And those of you who were unborn, who've lived in liberty,
Remember those who made it so on the shores of Normandy.
________________________________________
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
I heard the world's loudest **** today
It echoed round the town enough to say
*"I am a **** of great renown and fame,
I am a **** who's worthy of the name
Of* KING of FARTS!" Unthinkingly I sniffed
And, let me tell you, I have never whiffed
Aught so potent, dank and dread and foul
Blasted out from heaving human bowel
As that king of farts I smelled today
And which took my ******* breath away.
Who was the pumper of that putrid beauty?
How many curries in the line of duty
Had he consumed? It must have been a man -
No pong so strong ere blew from female can.
Can no one answer yet my urgent question:
And say who suffereth such dire indigestion?
O heavens! his torment must be something chronic.
Can no one subsidise a high colonic
Irrigation to prevent another
Noisier and more noisome than its younger brother?
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
A hometown should be one of pleasant memories
Going down to the creak, playing games in the streets
Not in this renown hidden town
A town full of dread and full of sorrow
Fulfilling the rich and suffering the poor
The unwelcomed guests welcomed all around
How I once was proud this was my hometown
My home will forever be in this town bearing misery
Until I get the courage to leave
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
by— Josiah Israel
Twas oft the way in days of old,
When knight would battle brave and bold,
The damsels hand in hopes to hold,
Worth more then polished Stone, or Gold
For this is what a boy is told
When day is done and night is cold…
“One day my son, thy chance will come
Though courage oft may waver,
When lady waits, through sable gates
For thee brave lad, to save her!”
For when a dragon stole a maid,
Awaiting ransom duly paid,
Twas bravest knight, armor arrayed
With noble steed and burnished blade
Rode swiftly to the damsels aid…
“You have not birth of high degree
Yet be thou brave and fight,
For low in rank thy birth may be
Yet heart makes noble knight!”
And after facing beast and foe
The knight with maiden free would go
Away to fields in need of ***
For seeds ere winter need to grow
And none can reap who do not sow…
“Not all you do will win a prize
Of gold or silver bent,
So reap a harvest good in size
And be thee well content.”
And when the battle horn he hears
The knight must banish all his fears
And ride to war, with battle cheers
On maidens cheek alight her tears
Fearing death, she spends the years…
“To win renown in battle
Might also be your path,
May your enemies armor rattle
As they feel your righteous wrath!”
But after kings campaign is done
The knight to home will swiftly run
From dusk through night to rising sun
Till maiden sees her hero come
Heart moving swift, a beating drum
Her heart a prize which first he won!
“Home is best at warring's end
To be with those you cherish,
A place to rest, your wounds to mend
Where love will never perish”
Though all the kingdom knows his name
And minstrels spread the brave knights fame
His love for she, remains the same
And they live happily, Knight and Dame…
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
#*“Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you who have no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost.
Why spend money on what is not bread,
and your labor on what does not satisfy?
Listen, listen to Me, and eat what is good,
and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.
Give ear and come to Me;
listen, that you may live.
I will make an everlasting covenant with you,
My faithful love promised to David...”
Seek the LORD while He may be found;
call on Him while He is near.
Let the wicked forsake their ways
and the unrighteous their thoughts.
Let them turn to the LORD, and He will have mercy on them,
and to our God, for He will freely pardon.
“For My thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways My ways,”
declares the LORD.
“As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are My ways higher than your ways
and My thoughts than your thoughts.
As the rain and the snow
come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
so is My word that goes out from My mouth:
It will not return to Me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.
You will go out in joy
and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
will clap their hands.
Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper,
and instead of briers the myrtle will grow.
This will be for the LORD’s renown,
for an everlasting sign,
that will endure forever.”
~ New International Version*#
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
Now tell me such a tale sir
while I am tightly bound
of captive maidens held sir
where evil knights abound.
Then taken to be used sir
in their castles of renown
of tortured girls so sweet sir
who are forced so to kneel down.
Then tell me of the dungeons sir
within the fortress drear
with chains upon the walls sir
where I might be held in fear.
Then show me what it means sir
to be such a prisoner
where nothing else is real sir
but myself as a damsel fair.
Then make me live the thought sir
that I might so lie within
and tortured all day long sir
for each imagined sin.
Then secretly find pleasure sir
in all that’s done to me
while my knightly captor sir
has me on my knees.
Then eventually confess sir,
to all my worldly sins
while my sadistic lord sir
is making me more commit .
Then tie me even tighter sir
with every knot aware
rough ****** I now need sir
to think myself as there.
Then make me taste your whip sir
to force me to submit
of the marks you leave sir
you care not a single whit.
Then take me as you will sir
and drive me really wild
make sure I’m deeply kissed sir
where I feel it burn inside.
Then hold me in your keep sir
and bend me to your will
and use my body more sir
for my needs are never still.
Then stand me on the brink sir
and show me just the edge
of where I shall be pushed sir
with just the slightest nudge.
Then tie me up and leave sir
to dream and squirm at will
of the ways I might be used sir
in your castle on the hill.
********
From the Francesca Anderssen collection of 101 **** Verses 2016
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
I sometimes take words that were first used by others
(I'm About to admit I'm a bit of a crook)
Re-hash and re-use them, and make my own covers-
Stealing little known lines from an eloquent book.
I've stolen from Shakespeare, yanked words off of Yeats,
And pilfered from Plato and Brown;
I've probably swiped stuff off all of the greats,
And many of zero renown.
There's more to be heard in the wise words of Wilde
Or took from a Tennyson line
Or the thinking out loud of an inquisitive child,
Than could spill forth from this pen of mine.
So if I've stolen from you, and perchance have offended,
(Yes- I'm about to steal Shakespeare again)
Just think but this, and all is mended;
Nothing original came from my pen.
Which means that, eventually, all that I've ever done
Will be lost in the shadows of time,
Skipped over, or lost, and simply outdone
By your works original shine.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:05 AM UTC
i like to watch the cheetah as he begins to chase
hunting for his food and his prey he does out pace
gathering his speed as the hunt begins
nothing can out pace him the cheetah always wins.
the fasted cat alive his speed it is renown
this is what he uses to catch and then bring down
a hunter of the wild as fast as fast can be
a proper born survivor running wild and free.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
Blessed are they whose baby-souls are bright,
Whose brows are sealèd with the cross of light,
Whom God Himself has deign'd to robe in white—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they who follow through the wild
His sacred footprints, as a little child;
Who strive to keep their garments undefiled—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they who commune with the Christ,
Midst holy angels, at the Eucharist—
Who aye seek sunlight through the rain and mist—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they—the strong in faith and grace—
Who humbly fill their own appointed place;
They who with steadfast patience run the race—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they who suffer and endure—
They who through thorns and briars walk safe and sure;
Gold in the fire made beautiful and pure!—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they on whom the angels wait,
To keep them facing the celestial gate,
To help them keep their vows inviolate—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they to whom, at dead of night,—
In work, in prayer—though veiled from mortal sight,
The great King's messengers bring love and light—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they whose labours only cease
When God decrees the quiet, sweet release;
Who lie down calmly in the sleep of peace—
Blessed are they!
Whose dust is angel-guarded, where the flowers
And soft moss cover it, in this earth of ours;
Whose souls are roaming in celestial bowers—
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they—our precious ones—who trod
A pathway for us o'er the rock-strewn sod.
How are they number'd with the saints of God!
Blessed are they!
Blessed are they, elected to sit down
With Christ, in that day of supreme renown,
When His own Bride shall wear her bridal crown—
Blessed are they!
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444
It feels a shame to be Alive—
When Men so brave—are dead—
One envies the Distinguished Dust—
Permitted—such a Head—
The Stone—that tells defending Whom
This Spartan put away
What little of Him we—possessed
In Pawn for Liberty—
The price is great—Sublimely paid—
Do we deserve—a Thing—
That lives—like Dollars—must be piled
Before we may obtain?
Are we that wait—sufficient worth—
That such Enormous Pearl
As life—dissolved be—for Us—
In Battle’s—horrid Bowl?
It may be—a Renown to live—
I think the Man who die—
Those unsustained—Saviors—
Present Divinity—
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By the time as it passes endlessly without coming to a halt.
Each human has been gifted with wealth, wether that be material or
not is of no importance, some possess more, some do possess less.
However, the most valuable wealth which is in a clear recording,
Is neither chosen to be owned, nor can one choose to abandon it.
Some tend to waste it, according to others by their individual opinion.
For some it is a cruel fate, as it runs out quicker until the life has reached its destined point, fades away into the embrace of death
Some use it for their advantage, to gain success, renown, luster.
Are you able to guess what it is, has the obvious been pointed out ?
Tick, tock, time passes, to never to turn and change it's path
As I am getting lost in emotions, such as tremor in my thoughts, I have stared into the pocket watch, its motion which gently calms me,
Thinking about the seconds which pass, I am locked in this angel's
sight with no chance to flee, digging deeper into the structure of my mind without minding the time which is escaping before my eyes.
Tick, tock, self reflection, thinking through actions, this time I spend staring is far from being wasted, far from being thrown away.
Until finally, I close it, sighing in relive
~ Umi
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
1279
The Way to know the Bobolink
From every other Bird
Precisely as the Joy of him—
Obliged to be inferred.
Of impudent Habiliment
Attired to defy,
Impertinence subordinate
At times to Majesty.
Of Sentiments seditious
Amenable to Law—
As Heresies of Transport
Or Puck’s Apostacy.
Extrinsic to Attention
Too intimate with Joy—
He compliments existence
Until allured away
By Seasons or his Children—
Adult and urgent grown—
Or unforeseen aggrandizement
Or, happily, Renown—
By Contrast certifying
The Bird of Birds is gone—
How nullified the Meadow—
Her Sorcerer withdrawn!
6k
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.
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***
***
-
I cannot be something I'm not.
If I do, I'll be living a false
life.
I won't give pride to have
my heart and soul bound
by a script just so people will
like me
Just because I want to be renown
I don't want that
I want people to focus on my
words, not my life
My passions, no pretenstions
My flaws, not perfection
For there is no perfect being in this world.
I want to be proud to be me
To own all of who I am and
to live without judgement
But how can I when people are
ready to throw stones because hate
is the newest trend?
I won't be a copy of someone I'm not.
I can't pretend to be something I'm not.
Life is short and there is only
one me.
I've done and said alot of things I shouldn't have...
And looking back, it makes me
feel ashamed, to be and not be seen
Shame hangs over my head each time
So please,
I'm begging you
just let me be proud of being
and showing the real me...
-
***
***
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 3:15 AM UTC
Translation From Anacreon
I wish to tune my quivering lyre,
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus’ sons advanc’d to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus rov’d afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to Love alone.
Fir’d with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler Hero’s name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the Epic strain
To Jove’s great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft Desire.
Adieu, ye Chiefs renown’d in arms!
Adieu the clang of War’s alarms!
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.
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1232
The Clover’s simple Fame
Remembered of the Cow—
Is better than enameled Realms
Of notability.
Renown perceives itself
And that degrades the Flower—
The Daisy that has looked behind
Has compromised its power—
4.6k
Suicidal tendencies, alleged attempt in 2011
(National Scholar-Athlete)
Bipolar with psychotic features, meds necessary
(President of student government)
Anti-social features, deceptive, manipulative, lying.
(Captain of varsity athletics)
Qualifies as a pickup. Forfeits all rights. Police involvement if necessary.
(President of an all-star rugby club)
Extreme aggression. Any homicidal idealization should be taken seriously.
(Trustee Scholarship to a renown private college)
Narcotics abuse. Marijuana, LSD, Klonopin, ******* Alcohol, Painkillers
(3.7 GPA)
Masks and shields intentions. Deceptive with professionals.
(Active volunteer)
I advise that he be admitted to a hospital immediately
(Participant in community)
Drug abuse counseling, medication, extensive therapy necessary
(Leader of peers)
Diagnoses fly like a panhandlers love affairs
Your inexact science is a disgrace to what I've created
A philosophy based on your experience
Ignoring the dynamic of the human condition
****** for feeling to much
****** for not feeling enough
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
There was a shooting in Redstone
Only one man dead, none hurt
He was found dead in the morning
With just one hole right through his shirt
He was lying in the main street
Face down, right there in the dirt
He was found dead in the morning
With just one hole right through his shirt
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
The crowd had formed around him
Lying there, all hard and cold
No witnessess to the shooting
At least not one so bold
They knew him from his weapon
The sixteen notches on the grip
He came in on the Flyer
He won't be on the return trip
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
He was staying at The Belfry
He only brought one bag to town
No one knew why he had come here
Except to shoot somebody down
The papers ran the story
The next morning in THE SUN
They ran a picture and a story
Of the "Man With The Pearl Gun"
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
The story was quite lengthy
Considering no one saw him shot
But, as usual there was someone
Who had a story to be bought
He'd been shot from an end window
Above the Local Mercantile Store
One bullet from a rifle
And the gunman was no more
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK
Turns out the gunman's killer
Was the one he'd come to find
The shooter was the killer's child
The only son, he'd left behind
They never met before this
He'd never ever met his Dad
But, The Gunman came to find him
And in the end, it's kind of sad
I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT BY MY SON
I WAS GUNNED DOWN WITHOUT KNOWING
I GUESS HE'S NOW THE WANTED GUN.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC
1560
To be forgot by thee
Surpasses Memory
Of other minds
The Heart cannot forget
Unless it contemplate
What it declines
I was regarded then
Raised from oblivion
A single time
To be remembered what—
Worthy to be forgot
Is my renown
3.9k
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if we will but tread
Beneath our feet each deed of shame!
All common things, each day’s events,
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.
The low desire, the base design,
That makes another’s virtues less;
The revel of the ruddy wine,
And all occasions of excess;
The longing for ignoble things;
The strife for triumph more than truth;
The hardening of the heart, that brings
Irreverence for the dreams of youth;
All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes
The action of the nobler will;—
All these must first be trampled down
Beneath our feet, if we would gain
In the bright fields of fair renown
The right of eminent domain.
We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time.
The mighty pyramids of stone
That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
As we to higher levels rise.
The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.
Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern—unseen before—
A path to higher destinies,
Nor doom the irrevocable Past
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.
3.8k
Much have been said
About my brother
Flame
How from his hands
Borne both
Creation
And destruction
Songs were sung
About trivial flickers
And infernos legendary
Allow me to say
My piece about
My brother flame
Flame
Words seems lifeless
Next to your colored streaks
Hearths spark
Red
Candles shine
Yellow
Blue
Is the burn from my oven
Life is borne
From your touch
Embers glow at your grasp
Metal refined from your speech
The world itself
Is teeming in life
For the sun
Looks down upon it
In its heart
You
My brother flame
Burn brightest
Fire
Is the element of change
You burn from the tears
Of the oppressed
You blaze from the verses
Of the revolutionary
Artists, lovers, and dreamers
Their eyes burn
With passion
Your disposition
My brother has never been cold
My Sister Wind
You warm her
With your embrace
Shed her chains and give her wings
That she may fly
Full of grace
Brother flame
You are a legend
May bards sing forever
Your songs
How you cradled the Phoenix
In its death
And herald its birth
From the same ashes it came from
How you fled with Prometheus
From Olympus
And sparked the dreams of men
You are a perfect instrument
Of God’s glory and renown
After heaven denied Earth
Rain
Elijah’s offer you consumed
On Horeb
Moses
Have seen you burning
A lonely bush
You’ve shown this lonely shepherd
He was standing on Holy Ground
And on God’s plan
Much have been said
About my brother flame
My piece reveals
Of those I am certain
These three
Life
Passion
Renown
12:27:08.03:23
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
Your nectar trickled down
It’s flavour was renown
The sweet tasting caramel
Slowly chipped at my will
It’s damped my mouth
And pretend I had drought
It spilled its honey substance
And did my longing, justice
It painted my tongue
And between my gums
Lastly it started to float
Down my aching throat
It crawled down my pipe
And made the tube ripe
But it’s objective was my heart
As it would slowly rip me apart
So before it could continue
I started to swallow it whole
Making sure your loving covet
Stayed at the bottom of my stomach
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 11:33 PM UTC
My fantasies turned blonde in ‘seventy-six.
Bjorn, Benny, flickas, sailed from East to West.
Santa Lucia never shone so blessed
as she did in my private Euro-mix.
Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.
Cassette wheels whirred – branding, then impressing
grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing
love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).
The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:
Frida, Agnetha – your longships linger
Your Viking faces sacked my harbor town.
portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,
enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.
I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
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
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
3.5k
1393
Lay this Laurel on the One
Too intrinsic for Renown—
Laurel—veil your deathless tree—
Him you chasten, that is He!
3.4k