To The Cuckoo
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 grassThy 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 taleOf visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy daysI listened to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often roveThrough 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 plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again. O blessèd Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, faery place;That is fit home for Thee!
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