Poems (Kennedy)/The Call to the Colors
THE CALL TO THE COLORS
LIKE the seeds of wind-flowers, lightly blown On vagrant, gypsying breeze,They are scattered wide throughout our land— Aliens from over the seas.They came from the crowded fatherlands To share in our broader sphere,And they built their nests and reared their broods Through many a changing year.
But a vibrant cry comes unaware From over the crested wave—The voice of the warring motherlands Calling their children to save:"On our grain-grown fields War plants its guns And lights its torch on the crag;We need you, sons in the Other Lands, Come back and fight for the flag!?
And deep in each listener's heart there stirs A memory that has slept'Neath blush of blossom and pallor of snows While the years have onward crept; And he sees in a flash his native hut, Where the foeman's banners float—And he's German again, or French, or Slav At thrill of a bugle note!
For a man may wander across the world And dwell 'neath a stranger's sky,But the call of the blood will cleave all space When it comes in a battle cry;And the nest he built and the brood he reared Are left to an alien flagWhile he turns him home, with his soul aflame, To die for a silken rag.