ome, fighters, carrying your flags, and singers, with your
war-songs!

Come, pilgrims of the march, 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 a place of rest after the day's dusty toil: hoping my hurts
would be healed and the stains in my garment washed white, when I
found thy trumpet lying in the dust.

Was it not the hour for me to light my evening lamp?

Had not the night sung its lullaby to the stars?

O thou blood-red rose, my poppies of sleep have paled and faded!

I was certain my wanderings were over and my debts all paid when
suddenly I came upon thy trumpet lying in the dust.

Strike my drowsy heart with thy spell of youth!

Let my joy in life blaze up in fire. Let the shafts of awakening
fly through the heart of night, and a thrill of dread shake
blindness and palsy.

I have come to raise thy trumpet from the dust.

Sleep is no more for me--my walk shall be through showers of
arrows.

Some shall run out of their houses and come to my side--some
shall weep.

Some in their beds shall toss and groan in dire dreams.

For to-night thy trumpet shall be sounded.

From thee I have asked peace only to find shame.

Now I stand before thee--help me to put on my armour!

Let hard blows of trouble strike fire into my life.

Let my heart beat in pain, the drum of thy victory.

My hands shall be utterly emptied to take up thy trumpet.

XXXVI

When, mad in their mirth, they raised dust to soil thy robe, O
Beautiful, it made my heart sick.

I cried to thee and said, "Take thy rod of punishment and judge
them."

The morning light struck upon those eyes, red with the revel of
night; the place of the white lily greeted their burning breath;
the stars through the depth of the sacred dark stared at their
carousing--at those that raised dust to soil thy robe, O
Beautiful!

Thy judgment seat was in the flower garden, in the birds' notes
in springtime: in the shady river-banks, where the trees muttered
in answer to the muttering of the waves.

O my Lover, they were pitiless in their passion.

They prowled in the dark to snatch thy ornaments to deck their
own desires.

When they had struck thee and thou wert pained, it pierced me to
the quick, and I cried to thee and said, "Take thy sword, O my
Lover, and judge them!"

Ah, but thy justice was vigilant.

A mother's tears were shed on their in