Runner's High

There's always such catharsis in a run
The interplay of legs, torso and arms
Is of a sort that cannot but be fun
And speed itself, of course, has many charms.
But in the heaving chest and stretching limbs
There is a special purity of spirit;
A healthy body singing loving hymns
To its own pleasure must perforced endear it
Unto itself, and make a pleasure grow
Out of the sweet concordance of the sprint.
It is a waste to ever go too slow;
True joy comes feeling the decisive print
Of dead heat in the legs and muscles racing
To keep up with the deep ecstatic pacing.