Page:New poems and variant readings, Stevenson, 1918.djvu/78

58 Well hast thou sailed: now die,

To die is not to sleep.

Still your true course you keep,

O sailor soul, still sailing for the sky;

And fifty fathom deep

Your colours still shall fly.

THE COCK'S CLEAR VOICE INTO THE CLEARER AIR

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.