A.E. Housman (1859–1936)

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.