The Summons by Charles G. D. Roberts

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

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