The Runner

As when at Delphi, Thymus close behind,
He flew through stadium to applause's roar,
So on this plinth now Ladas runs once more,
On bronze foot, slim, and swifter than the wind.

With arm outstretched, eyes fixed, trunk front inclined,
The beaded drops of sweat his face glide o'er;
Sure, sculptor scarce had cast his form before
It leaped all living from the mould designed.

He throbs, he trembles, hopes, yet fears to lose;
His side heaves, the cleaved air his lips refuse,
And with the strain his muscles jutting rise.

His spirit's ardor nought can now control,
And far beyond his pedestal he flies
In the arena toward the palm and goal.