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The Clocks Clear Voice Into The Clearer Air

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Written by Robert Louis Stevenson

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


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