As when at Delphi, Thymus close behind,
He flew through stadium to applause's roar,
So on this plinth now Ladas runs one more,
On bronze foot, slim, and swifter than the wind.
With arm outstretched, eyes fixed, trunk front inclined,
The beaded drops of sweat his face glide o'er;
Surely while sculptor did the metal pour,
The athlete leaped from mould in form designed.
He throbs, he trembles, hopes, yet fears to lose;
His side pants, the cleaved air his lips refuse,
And with the strain his muscles jutting rise.
His spirit's ardor is beyond control,
And passing o'er supporting base he flies
In the arena toward the palm and goal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem