by A. E. Housman
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.