The Hundred-Yard Dash

Give me a race that is run in a breath,   Straight from the start to the “tape;” Distance hath charms, but a “Ding Dong” means death,   Death without flowers and crape. “On your mark,” “Set,”—for a moment we strain,   Held by a leash all unseen; “P’ff,” we are off, from the pistol we gain   Yards, if the starter’s not keen. Off like lean greyhounds, the cinders scarce stir   Under the touch of our feet; Flashes of sunlight, the crowd’s muffled purr,   The rush of the wind, warm and sweet. One last fierce effort; the red worsted breaks,   Struggle and strain are all past; Only ten ticks of the watch, but it makes   First, second, third, and the last.