The Call, by Clinton Scollard

The Call

O'er violet-dotted height and king-cup hollow
The Spirit calls me, and I fain would follow.
Old crabbed, creeping Age,
With its warped heritage,
Have I forsworn,
Clasping again the ardors of the morn.
I need no staff;
'Tis prop enough to hear the rushes laugh,
And see
The frolic of the leaves upon the tree
What'er it be, --
Or gracile elm or supple hickory!
I am aware all nature feels with me
The impulse of the call;
The vine upon the wall
Raptures and thrills to every tendril tip,
And cherry chalices, sweetly virginal,
Pulse to the very lip.
Yellow and red and rimpling russet throat
Have caught the mandate note,
And, while I hearken,
From birchen coppices that greenly darken
'Tis fluted with ecstatic variation;
And lo, the fleet elation
Kindles along the swale-lands where unfold
The torches of the bright marsh-marigold!
The trilliums ethereal trumpets blow--
_What ho! What ho!_
Even the tiny creepers of the sod
Have listened and responded;
Wry-rooted mandrakes beck and nod;
The ferns are freshly fronded;
Agile ephemeræ, winged with fluttering gauze,
Tingle and tremble,
Circle afar, up-dart and re-assemble
As though in key with earth's melodious laws.
Over the pebble
The rhythmic water tinkles with new treble;
Swift-fluttering psyche, as in keen delight,
Beguiles the fancy with strange loops of flight;
The shy moth apprehends in the lush shade;
The mosses shimmer with a livelier luster;
Mushrooms upleap in sudden creamy cluster,
And lichens shine, in silvery gloss arrayed.   O fragrant fires
Sprinkled with vernal incense! O desires
Renascent, with your billowy resurgence,
Your all-imperious urgence,
You teach me how the soul of man aspires!
Spirit, like Truth,
Keeps its eternal youth,
And quickeneth me until I fain would follow
O'er violet-dotted height and king-cup hollow! - Clinton Scollard

Clinton Scollard