A SHROPSHIRE LAD

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...

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...

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-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's."

A. E. Housman

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