We athletes who, with sternest discipline, Still punish weary limbs that yearn for rest; Who, hearts once pitched upon our high design, Disdain all feats that fall below the best. What drives us forward? Pride, consuming pride, That scorns to bow to rigour, ache or strain; That seeks those ecstasies we know abide Beyond the bourn of puny-body's pain. Down galleries of dedicated days, One impulse thrusts us onward, one alone — a Fierce desire to wear the victor's bays — To Go for Gold — and Win! — in Barcelona. To clutch the Bronze or Silver's splendid prize; But, most of all, to grasp refulgent Gold, The guerdon of a tireless enterprise — A lifetime's bliss in one sweet rapture rolled! And yet, of all those Knights who sought the Grail, Most failed and died, albeit lion-hearted. Our uttermost endeavours too may fail — By sudden sickness, chance — or inches! — thwarted. The winners are but few. To that great host Of those who lose, this only can atone — a Princely-proud ability to boast — 'We Took the Golden Road to Barcelona.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LOVER'S QUARREL by ROBERT BROWNING THE BLISSFUL DAY by ROBERT BURNS DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE; THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE CANON OF AUGHRIM by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 34 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |