Gold and green the elm leaves lean and interlace, <br />All the coloured woodlands are calling to the Chase. <br />Dew is on the stubble field, ruddy grows the thorn, <br />All the withered meadowland is listening for the horn. <br />Lures of lawn and hammock, rod and bat and ball, <br />Fade before the coming of a stronger lure than all, <br />Faint before the whisper of the padding feet that pass, <br />Fail before the witchery of hoof-beats on the grass. <br />England in her summer sleep turns about and stirs, <br />Hears the click of bridle rings, hears the clink of spurs, <br />Sees the gleam of spotted flanks moving in the gorse, <br />Sees the flashing scarlet of a Whip upon his horse. <br />Rippling water charms no more, nor the lazy noon, <br />Spent among the lime trees where a wild bee makes the tune; <br />Something fiercer tugs the heart, fans the Wood to fire, <br />Sets the pulses galloping, and wakes the old desire. <br />Girths are buckled, reins are drawn, stirrups caught again; <br />Women turn to sterner play, men go forth like men. <br />Where the storm-clouds gather, where the strong winds stride, <br />Autumn calls to England and bids her bravest ride.<br /><br />William Henry Ogilvie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-call-37/
