11. 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,

I hear thy restless shout:

From hill to hill it seems to pass,

About, and all about!

To me, no Babbler with a tale

Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale

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 listen'd 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 long'd 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!