The Call
"Now she was deserted by her husband, and there was a
man would die for her.
THO' the mist is on the mountain, yet the sun is on the sea.
Don't you hear me calling, comrade, calling you to follow me?
For my love is for your bosom, and my hand is for your hand,
Don't you hear me calling, comrade? Will you never understand?
Here I want you, in the country, where the cowslip nods asleep,
Where the palm is by the water, where the peace is doubly deep;
Where the finches chirp at matins in a green and lovely land—
Don't you hear, my thorn and blossom? Don't you feel to understand?
If my voice is not melodious, lo, the thrush shall aid my voice;
Ev'ry linnet in the orchard has a trill to praise my choice:
Shall I bide a barren singer in this valley full of mist,
Unennobled, unattended, wanting you, and all unkissed?
