by Michael Ceraolo
When I consider every game that’s played
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
No matter where such moment is displayed,
No matter the media who comment,
And I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered or jeered under any and all skies,
Vaunt their youthful sap, only to decrease,
Eventually left with mere memories.
Try not to think of this inconstant stay
Of vigor with less than complete delight,
Though wasteful Time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
Forget the war with Time we all must lose,
And make lasting your fame from today’s news.