Cicely Fox Smith

(1 February 1882 – 8 April 1954 / Lymm, Cheshire)

The Four Buglers - Poem by Cicely Fox Smith

In the high halls of morning,
Where the red dawnlights glow,
On the threshold of sunrise
Four buglers stand arow,
In the high halls of morning,
Where the wind-bugles blow.

And ever one or another
Sends forth a mighty blast,
Till the vaults ring and echo
With the sound against them cast,
And the red dawnlights shiver
At the breath sweeping past.

When one sets lip to bugle
The fishermen go not forth:
When one sets lip to bugle
The floes come out of the North:
Great is the power of either,
And who shall weigh their worth?

When one sets lip to bugle
The lands are eased of drouth:
When one sets lip to bugle
The birds come back from the South:
And which shall be known for stronger
When the bugle is to his mouth?

From the four gates of morning
The sounds of the bugles go,
Each with its freight of summer,
Tempest or rain or snow;
From the high halls of morning
Where the red dawnlights glow.


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Poem Submitted: Monday, August 30, 2010



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