The Summons

Deeps of the wind-torn west, Flaming and desolate, Upsprings my soul from his rest With your banners at the gate.

'Neath this o'ermastering sky How could the heart lie still, Or the sluggish will Content in the old chains lie, When over the lonely hill Your torn wild scarlets cry?

Up, Soul, and out Into the deeps alone, To the long peal and the shout Of those trumpets blown and blown.