The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (5.1895)

The Call

By Norman Gale

“ Now she was desertcd 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 under-
stand ?

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 under-
stand ?

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 ?

Oceans