Trumpets
Woven from the tangled hair of comets
On the never-ceasing shuttles of the wind,
Night, thick Tabernacle for the sun, is pitched;
And from the deepening gloom
Ring out the trumpets
Red and quick as sparks
Before the vivifying camp-fire of the Gods.
* * * *
The blare of a Trumpet is brazen, fierce
As the culminate charge that decides a battle.—
Great plumes like clouds wind-riven
Float behind each fighter,
And their armour glints and gleams in the Sun.—
The horses hooves beat loud, insistent,—
As ominous and dire as kettledrums;
The whole Earth's expectant.
[...]
Sacheverell Sitwell's poem "Trumpets" was published in the second "cycle" of the Wheels anthology in 1917. To read this poem in full in this publication context, follow the link(s) below: