Classic Poem

The laurel falls upon my brow,
The plaudits thunder round the throne!
Lord God, support me even now,
Lest my true feebleness be shown.

The laurel falls like crown of lead
Upon a brow that reeks with sweat.
Oh, might its leaves hang withered, dead,
Could I this weariness forget!

This weariness of eye and brain,
This heaviness of heart and limb,
That tell of struggle all but vain,
Triumphal torches all but dim.

How slight a thing had turned the scale,
The victor and the vanquished changed;
And I had couched with those who fail,
And he had with the heroes ranged.

The flutter of a kerchief there,
A pebble kicked along the course,
A baffling lock of wind-blown hair
Across one's eyes — so small a source

Sometimes has victory or defeat.
The Gods decide, the Fates decree,
They dice with Chance, and haply cheat:
The sport of circumstance are we.

He sits in silence in his place,
With steadfast eye and tranquil brow.
Lest I should wear a poorer grace,
Lord God, be with me even now.