IVREVEILLEWake: 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 overhear'll be time enough to sleep.

A Shropshire Lad