Fame Poem by Ross Maclennan

There is little doubt the Artist knows of life
And of death and laughter and of tears;
Of how to mock the tragedy, or draw the sting from strife
Or summon, seer-like, tenderness and fears

But how can one so young yet be so wise:
To strike the chord that thrills so deep and true
To draw and aim and loose the shaft that flies
Unerringly to pierce that seen by few

The atavistic empathy, the common bond
That tightly binds us all through time and space.
The secret longings and the secrets lost,
The glory and the weakness of the human race

For eyes once clear and distant as the dawn,
For lips that pursed then smiled, watching fate
For brows that frowned through lines that pain has drawn
We hand the Laurel and the name of 'Great'

Yet sometimes, youth bestows on them this gift;
Untimely end, untimely honour bring,
Had they but stayed, would truth dictate a shift
And ask of us a quieter praise to sing

Is treasures' value of itself alone?
Or praise a scale that’s balanced for us all
By those who know us more than we had known.
It's how you race, not when you break or fall.