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!
William Wordsworth
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