Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By WilliamLindsey

1337 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.