Those \u00a0who speak \u2028of aging as a curse
\nsense the days they eke \u2028out could get worse.<\/p>\n
By habit they hallow \u2028victories of the young,
\nwhose run becomes hollow\u2028, soon enough unsung.<\/p>\n
As bursts of sprint \u2028merge into marathon
\nthey reinvent \u2028the measure of having won.<\/p>\n
Speed yields to distance.\u2028 The brio of dash
\ntopples before persistence, which trumps flash.<\/p>\n
And as they turn to lope, \u2028aiming to come in last,
\nthis remains their hope: \u2028cross not sooner but fast.<\/p>\n
*** Those \u00a0who speak \u2028of aging as a curse sense the days they eke \u2028out could get worse. By habit they hallow \u2028victories of the young, whose run becomes hollow\u2028, soon enough unsung. As bursts of sprint \u2028merge into marathon they reinvent \u2028the measure of having won. Speed yields to distance.\u2028 The brio of dash topples … <\/p>\n
\nI’ve tweaked\u00a0this poem, written for the 2012 Olympics, shifting it from the somewhat\u00a0maudlin first person to the third. To my present ear, it works better, though no one should have any illusion that these kinds of thoughts are likely to occur to anyone who has not himself begun to reinvent the measure of having won. In <\/em>The Skin of Things<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n