And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through,
Till in he broke; “Rejoice, we conquer.” Like wine through clay
Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died—the bliss!...
So is Pheidippides happy for ever, the noble, strong man
Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well.
He saw the land saved he had helped to save and was suffered to tell
Such tidings, yet never decline, but gloriously as he began
So to end gloriously—once to shout, thereafter be mute:
“Athens is saved!” Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed.’
