To The Cuckoo

O

HE 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

Thy twofold shout I hear,

From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,

Of Sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy daysI listened to; that

Which made me look a thousand

In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often

Through woods and on the green;

And thou wert still a hope, a love;

Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the

And listen, till I do

That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we

Again appears to

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!