O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
I hear thy restless shout:
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
About, and all about!
To me no Babbler with a tale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, Darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No Bird, but an invisible Thing,
A voice, a mystery.
The same whom in my School-boy days
I listen'd to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still long'd for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
Design, coding, and editing: Copyright © 1997 by James M. Garrett. All rights reserved.