HERE lies one in the earth who scarce of the earth was moulded,
Wise Æthalides' son, himself no lover of study,
Cnopus, asleep, indoors: the young invincible runner.
They from the cliff footpath that see on the grave we made him,
Tameless, slant in the wind, the bare and beautiful iris,
Stop short, full of delight, and cry out: "See, it is Cnopus
Runs, with white throat forward, over the sands to Chalcis!"