In Youth, when through our veins runs fast br The bright red stream of life, br The Soul's Voice is a trumpet-blast br That calls us to the strife. br br The Spirit spurns its prison-bars, br And feels with force endued br To scale the ramparts of the stars br And storm Infinitude. br br Youth passes; like a dungeon grows br The Spirit's house of clay: br The voice that once in music rose br In murmurs dies away. br br But in the day when sickness sore br Smites on the body's walls, br The Soul's Voice through the breach once more br Like to a trumpet calls. br br Well shall it be with him who heeds br The mystic summons then! br His after-life with loving deeds br Shall blossom amongst men. br br He shall have gifts, the gift that feels br The germ within the clod, br And hears the whirring of the wheels br That turn the mills of God! br br The gift that sees with glance profound br The secret soul of things, br And in the silence hears the sound br Of vast and viewless wings! br br The veil of Isis sevenfold br To him as gauze shall be, br Wherethrough, clear-eyed, he shall behold br The Ancient Mystery. br br He shall do battle for the True, br Defend till death the Right, br With Shoes of Swiftness Wrong pursue, br With Sword of Sharpness smite. br br And, dying, he shall haply hear, br Like golden trumpets blown br For joy, far voices sweet and clear, br Soul-voices like his own.