PINDAR IS DEAD
There are hikers on all the roads-
Pindar is dead-
The petrol pumps are doing a roaring business,
Motors are tuning up for the Easter races,
Building companies are loaning to the newly married-
Pindar is dead and that's no matter.
There are climbers on all the hills-
Pindar is dead-
With oiled boots and ropes they are tackling Snowdon,
The swimming-baths are filled for Easter Monday,
Doctored with chlorine to prevent infection-
Pindar is dead and that's no matter.
There is money on all the horses-
Pindar is dead-
One belongs to a proud and plethoric peer,
Ode to a maharajah, one to a midland magnate,
One to a dago count and one to a tweeded spinster-
Pindar is dead and that's no matter.
There are flowers in all the markets-
Pindar is dead-
Daffodils, tulips, and forced roses,
New potatoes and green peas for Easter,
Wreaths of moss and primrose for the churches
But no wreaths for runners, whether of olive or laurel-
Pindar is dead and that's no matter.
--Louis MacNeice
