Page:Poems of the Great War - Cunliffe.djvu/279

 ��THE TRUMPET

Thy trumpet lies in the dust.

The wind is weary, the light is dead. Ah, the evil

day ! Come fighters, carrying your flags and singers with

your songs ! Come pilgrims, hurrying on your journey ! The trumpet lies in the dust waiting for us.

I was on my way to the temple with my evening

offerings, Seeking for the heaven of rest after the day's dusty

toil; Hoping my hurts would be healed and stains in my

garments washed white, When I found thy trumpet lying in the dust.

Has it not been the time for me to light my lamp?

Has my evening not come to bring me sleep ?

O, thou blood-rod rose, where have my poppies

faded y I was certain my wanderings were over and my debts

all paid When suddenly I came upon thy trumpet lying in the

dust.

�� �