Delphi Museum

Lips apart, dry eyes steady,
He stands forever at the ready,

Fingers open, sensitive
To the horses’ take and give

(Although no single steed remains
At the end of tangled reins).

It is as if we are not here—
The way the patient charioteer

Looks beyond us, into space,
For some sign to begin the race.

He has stared down centuries.
No wave from us, no sudden breeze,

Will trick him now to a false start.
He has learned the racer’s art

To stand watchful at the gate,
Empty out the mind, and wait.

As long as it is in our power
We gaze—maybe for half an hour—

Before we turn from him to go.
Outside, the hills begin to glow,

Burnished by a brazen sun
Whose course now is almost run.

We shiver, and around us feel
Vanished horses plunge and wheel.