Some die young. It is an unspeakable tragedy rendered much more difficult when it is unnecessary and preventable. It cuts short promise and scars those left behind. No words can shelter, no caress can console us from its immensity, but in the end, we carry on the best we can.
I am a blogger, not a writer. There is nothing dishonorable about being a blogger, just as there was nothing intrinsically dishonorable about being Salieri , except in his desire to be Mozart. We must be the best Salieris we can be. But some days only Mozart will do. Some days the blogger must step aside for the true writer. Today is one of those days.
To An Athlete Dying Young
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market place;
Man and Boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-High we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge- cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on his curls
The garland briefer than a girls.
A.E. Houseman, “A Shropshire Lad”
God bless you Carson.