Classic Poem

Ended the watches of the dark; oh hear the bugles blow—
The bugles blow Reveillé at the golden gates of morn;
A shudder moves the living East; the stars are burning low
Above the crystal cradle of a day that's newly born.
Arise ye slumbering legions; wake for honour and for right;
Awake, arise, ye myriad men, to faith and justice sworn;
High heaven's fires are flashing on the valley and the height,
And the bugles blow Reveillé at the golden gates of morn.
Within the holy of your hearts, oh hear the bugles blow—
The bugles blow Reveillé at the golden gates of morn,
And welcome with their clarion ineffable foreglow
Of a sunrise where the souls of men are being newly born.
Awake, arise, ye legions, to the challenge of the dead;
Arise, awake and follow in the footsteps they have worn;
For their spirits are the glory of the dayspring overhead,
And their bugles blow Reveillé at the golden gates of morn.