To the Cuckoo
wordsworth
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
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 tale
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 listened 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 longed 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!
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