The Trumpets

THE TRUMPETS Sam Walter Foss

This was Mr. Foss’s last poem, and was written just before Christmas, 1910, when he thought he might have to submit to an operation. The end came February 26, 1911.

The trumpets were calling me over the hill,
And I was a boy and knew nothing of men;
But they filled all the vale with their clangorous trill,
And flooded the gloom of the glen.

“The trumpets,” I cried, “Lo, they call from afar,
They are mingled with music of bugle and drum;
The trumpets, the trumpets are calling to war,
The trumpets are calling — I come.”

The trumpets were calling me over the Range,
And I was a youth and was strong for the strife;
And I was full fain for the new and the strange,
And mad for the tumult of life.

And I heard the loud trumpets that blew for the fray,
In the spell of their magic and madness was dumb;
And I said, “I will follow by night and by day,
The trumpets are calling — I come.”

The trumpets were calling and I was a man,
And had faced the stern world and grown strong;
And the trumpets mere calling far off, and I ran
Toward the blare of their mystical song.

And they led me o’er mountains, ‘neath alien skies,
All else but their music was dumb;
And I ran till I fell, and slept but to rise,
Lo, the trumpets are calling — I come.

The trumpets are calling, I’ve come to the sea,
But far out in the moon-lighted glow,
I still hear the trumpets, they’re calling to me,
The trumpets are calling — I go.

And lo, a strange boatman is here with his bark,
And he takes me and rows away, silent and dumb;
But my trumpets! my trumpets! they peal through the dark,
The trumpets are calling — I come.

Tags: #poetry [[MOC - Literature]]