THE cock's clear voice into the clearer air <br />Where westward far I roam, <br />Mounts with a thrill of hope, <br />Falls with a sigh of home. <br /> <br />A rural sentry, he from farm and field <br />The coming morn descries, <br />And, mankind's bugler, wakes <br />The camp of enterprise. <br /> <br />He sings the morn upon the westward hills <br />Strange and remote and wild; <br />He sings it in the land <br />Where once I was a child. <br /> <br />He brings to me dear voices of the past, <br />The old land and the years: <br />My father calls for me, <br />My weeping spirit hears. <br /> <br />Fife, fife, into the golden air, O bird, <br />And sing the morning in; <br />For the old days are past <br />And new days begin.<br /><br />Robert Louis Stevenson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-clock-s-clear-voice-into-the-clearer-air/
