330 POEMS 
Its sunny noon, high noon, the whole world’s 
pause, 
Nor less that sweet decline which ends in eve. 
Life were monotonous with its morning hours, 
Came not the hurrying years to shift our 
mood, 
Unfold an altered heaven and spread its glow 
O’er the changed landscape of time’s afternoon. 
THE TRUMPETER 
I BLEw, I blew, the trumpet loudly sounding ; 
I blew, I blew, the heart within me bounding ; 
The world was fresh and fair, yet dark with 
wrong, 
And men stood forth to conquer at the song 
I blew, I blew, I blew. 
The field is won ; the minstrels loud are crying, 
And all the world is peace; and I am dying. 
Yet this forgotten life was not in vain ; 
Enough if I alone recall the strain 
I blew, I blew, I blew. 
