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May 3, 2021 — An elegy for Stanford field hockey (with a nod to Walt Whitman)

O Leland! my Leland! their fearful trip is done,
The team has weather’d every game, the prize they sought not won,
The end is here, the bells I hear, supporters not acclaiming,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
  But what was a beating heart
  With cardinal blood of red
  With the team representing Leland
  Is left instead for dead.

O Leland! my Leland! the team still hears the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag was flung—for you the bugle trilled,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the pitch a-crowding,
For you they called, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
  Here Leland! dear founder!
  The team for which they bled
  Has now become a dream that on the deck,
  And fallen cold and dead.

My Leland does not answer, the Board is stone and still,
The Board does not feel her; they have no pulse nor will,
The team is moored safe and sound, its voyage had its cost,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in, but object lost;
  While others on the farm will ring the bells,
  The players slowly tread,
  Walk the green, while the team lies,
  Fallen cold and dead.

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