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 grass,Thy loud note smites my ear!—From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near!

I hear thee babbling to the ValeOf sunshine and of flowers;And unto me thou bring'st 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 listen'd to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand ways;In 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 long'd for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet;Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, faery place;That is fit home for Thee!