For The A.G. Beau Biden

I am still heartsick over this loss.
We learned growing up in Catholic school, that a person can have a correct conscience, a doubtful
conscience, or even a wayward conscience. Wayward in that there may very well be 'honor among
thieves', but it isn't actual honor.
Though I didn't know the A.G. I somehow became very familiar with his work.
He was like a more moral Eliot Spitzer.
He seemed a less political Elizabeth Warren, and an equally committed but less fiery Bernie Sanders.
He was all anyone ever could have hoped for in a public official.
His public conscience was offered to us as not only correct, but laser-focused, rigorous, and muscular. How did medical science in this day and age allow us to lose such a man? I suppose only
heaven can answer that question.
I'd like us to use A.E. Housman's poem to remember the A.G.'s public service, and as likely, his personal humanity as well.

                                                To An Athlete Dying Young
                                                                                     by A. E. Housman

                                           The time you won your town the race
                                           We chaired you through the market-place;
                                           Man and boy stood cheering by,
                                           And home we brought you shoulder-high.

                                           Today, the road all runners come,
                                           Shoulder-high we bring you home.
                                           And set you at your threshold down,
                                           Townsman of a stiller town.

                                           Smart lad to slip betimes away
                                           From fields where glory does not stay
                                           And early though the laurel grows
                                           It withers quicker than the rose.

                                           Eyes the shady night has shut,
                                           Cannot see the record cut
                                           And silence sounds no worse than cheers
                                           After earth has stopped the ears:

                                           Now you will not swell the rout
                                           Of lads that wore their honours out,
                                           Runners whom renown outran
                                           And the name died before the man.

                                           So set, before its echoes fade,
                                           The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
                                           And hold to the low lintel up
                                           The still-defended challenge cup.