Classic Poem

My brave world-builders of the West!
Why, who doth know ye? Who shall know
But I that on thy peaks of snow
Brake bread the first? Who loves ye best?
Who holds ye still, of more stern worth
Then all proud peoples of the earth?
Yea, I, the rhymer of wild rhymes,
Indifferent of blame or praise,
Still sing of ye, as one who plays
The same sweet air in all strange climes —
The same wild, piercing highland air,
Because — because, his heart is there.