The Bugler

GOD dreamed a man;

Then, having firmly shut

Life like a precious metal in his fist

Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin

Our various divinity and sin.

For some to ploughshares did the metal twist,

And others—dreaming empires—straightway cut

Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat

Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet

Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dares to boast

That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most

Did with it—simply nothing. (Here again

Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain

Metal unmarred, to each man more or less,

Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness.

For me, I do but bear within my hand

(For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken)

A simple bugle such as may awaken

With one high morning note a drowsing man:

That wheresoe’er within my motherland

That sound may come, ’twill echo far and wide

Like pipes of battle calling up a clan,

Trumpeting men through beauty to God’s side.