Time, thou art the greatest runner of them all; No beads of sweat stand out upon thy brow. No sign of great exertion—no muscles ridge thy throat, No look of pain upon thy face, somehow. But, ah! It is thy spectators who suffer, your audience— You wear them out, they can not stand the strain; They've watched you long, and with such great expectancy; Then vanished without knowing of your fame. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LANCELOT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE BELLS OF HEAVEN by RALPH HODGSON CHORUS OF THE CLOUD-MAIDEN: ANTISTROPHE, FR. THE CLOUDS by ARISTOPHANES LATIMER AND RIDLEY, BURNED AT THE STAKE IN OXFORD, 1555 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN OUR PRISONERS OF WAR IN GERMANY by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 4. THE COAST OF LIGURIA by EDWARD CARPENTER ANTHEM OF DAWN by MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN THE SIEGE OF KAZAN; TARTAR SONG by ALEXANDER BOREJKO CHODZKO |