New Poems, and Variant Readings. Robert Louis Stevenson

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       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.

      Such songs in my flushed hours I dream

       (High thought) instead of armour gleam

       Or warrior cantos ream by ream

       To load the shelves—

       Songs with a lilt of words, that seem

       To sing themselves.