I'd like to make some amends by standing at his graveside in my Karen Blixen hat and reading the following -
"The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market place
Man and boy stood cheering by
As 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.
And now you will not swell the rout
Of lads who wore their honours out
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died 'fore the man.
And round that early laurel'd head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead.
And find, unwither'd on its curls
A garland - briefer than a girls."
...fragment of the day...
Updated On: 1/15/06 at 02:48 PM