Page:New poems and variant readings, Stevenson, 1918.djvu/42

22 High on the far-seen, sunny hills,

Morning-content my bosom fills;

Well-pleased, I trace the wandering rills

And learn their birth.

Far off, the clash of sovereign wills

May shake the earth.

The nimble circuit of the wheel,

The uncertain poise of merchant weal,

Heaven of famine, fire and steel

When nations fall;

These, heedful, from afar I feel—

I mark them all.

But not, my friend, not these I sing,

My voice shall fill a narrower ring.

Tired souls, that flag upon the wing,

I seek to cheer:

Brave wines to strengthen hope I bring,

Life's cantineer!

Some song that shall be suppling oil

To weary muscles strained with toil,

Shall hearten for the daily moil,

Or widely read

Make sweet for him that tills the soil

His daily bread.