The Clock's Clear Voice Into The Clearer Air Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

The Clock's Clear Voice Into The Clearer Air

Rating: 2.9


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.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Robert Louis Stevenson

Robert Louis Stevenson

Edinburgh / Scotland
Close
Error Success