Poetry Archives

Wake: the silver dusk returning
  Up the beach of darkness brims,
And the ship of sunrise burning
  Strands upon the eastern rims.

Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
  Trampled to the floor it spanned,
And the tent of night in tatters
  Straws the sky-pavilioned land.

Up, lad, up, ’tis late for lying:
  Hear the drums of morning play;
Hark, the empty highways crying
  “Who’ll beyond the hills away?”

Towns and countries woo together,
  Forelands beacon, belfries call;
Never lad that trod on leather
  Lived to feast his heart with all.

Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
  Sunlit pallets never thrive;
Morns abed and daylight slumber
  Were not meant for man alive.

Clay lies still, but blood’s a rover;
  Breath’s a ware that will not keep.
Up, lad: when the journey’s over
  There’ll be time enough to sleep.