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.
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