God dreamed a man; <br />Then, having firmly shut <br />Life like a precious metal in his fist <br />Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin <br />Our various divinity and sin. <br />For some to ploughshares did the metal twist, <br />And others—dreaming empires—straightway cut <br />Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat <br />Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet <br />Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dares to boast <br />That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most <br />Did with it—simply nothing. (Here again <br />Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain <br />Metal unmarred, to each man more or less, <br />Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness. <br /> <br />For me, I do but bear within my hand <br />(For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken) <br />A simple bugle such as may awaken <br />With one high morning note a drowsing man: <br />That wheresoe'er within my motherland <br />That sound may come, 'twill echo far and wide <br />Like pipes of battle calling up a clan, <br />Trumpeting men through beauty to God's side.<br /><br />Frederick William (FW) Harvey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bugler/
