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.
(A. E. Housman)
More Poetry from A. E. Housman:
A. E. Housman Poems based on Topics: Night, Morning, Sleep, Silver- LXII: Terence, This is Stupid Stuff (A E Housman Poems)
- IX: The Chestnut Casts His Flambeaux and the Flowers (A E Housman Poems)
- XIII: The Deserter (A E Housman Poems)
- Diffugere Nives (A E Housman Poems)
- I:1887 (A E Housman Poems)
- IX: On Moonlit Heath and Lonesome Bank (A E Housman Poems)
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