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IV - Reveille

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, A Shropshire Lad
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