To James

Max Weber
Prueba Atletica

To James

Do you remember

how you won

that last race...?

how you flung your body

at the start...

how your spikes

ripped the cinders

in the stretch...

how you catapulted

through the tape...

do you remember?

Don’t you think

I lurched with you

out of those starting holes...?

Don’t you think

my sinews tightened

at those firstfew strides...

and when you flew into the

stretch

was not all my thrill

of a thousand races

in your blood...?

At your final drive

through the finish line

did not my shout

tell of the
triumphant ecstasy

of victory...?
Live

as I have taught you

to run, Boy -

it’s a short dash.

Dig your starting holes

deep and firm

lurch out of them

into the straightaway

with all the power

that is in you

look straight ahead

to the finish line

think only of the goal

run straight

run high

run hard

save nothing

and finish

with an ecstatic burst

that carries you

hurtling

through the tape

to victory...

~ Frank Horne ~

To an Athlete Dying Young

Montserrat Gudiol

Atleta

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.

~ Alfred Edward Housman ~