"To An Athlete Dying Young" by A.E. Housman
The time you won the town your 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 through the laurels grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,