Biglin Brothers Racing Poem by Ernest Hilbert

Thomas Eakins

Nimble rowers, their art ancient as war,
Raise their oars and ride gently on dented gold
As sun shocks the river to ribboned fire.
They haul hard and halt. Nothing prepares for
Their clear and precise aim. They raise and fold
Their blades under, pull, draw, rest, and respire.
Simple flexed machines of doused oar, bright fleck,
Trained across cold surfaces brisk as steel,
Delicate insect thrash, more than just life,
More than we allow ourselves to expect;
Polished slender shell of lacquered teal
Thrust through late noon light, fine as a knife.
Muscled rowers glide on their mirrored sky,
Winners, a day's champions, built to die.