The Cuckoo

Sing, cuckoo, sing,

Dear herald of the Spring!

Minstrels in all ages born,

Hearing thee on such a morn —

When the cowslips all around

Waft their fragrance from the ground,

And the blossom of the pear

Quivers white in bluest air —

Such as I, in all the ages

Thus have covered rapturous pages

With thy praise, O loveliest bird

Ear of man has ever heard!

Though thy note be one of sadness,

Messenger thou art of gladness

Only; for thou comest first

When the buds their prison burst,

When, upon an April day,

Earth awakes to cast away

What remains of wintry sorrow,

And to don for summer's morrow

Joyful garb of newest green.

Spirit-like thou sing'st, unseen:

East and west thy piercing note

From the forest seems to float

Over plain and over hill,

And thy echoing cries instil

Hope into each breath that blows.

Who that hears thy voice but knows

That the joys of June are nearing?

See the lilies in the clearing,

How they raise their green young bells!

Every hasty bud that swells

Answers thee in joyfulness;

And the winter's long distress,

Like a lifted cloud at dawn,

Melts and quivers and is gone.

Autumn leaves that strew the ways

Have outlived their kindly days:

Now the sun shall warm the earth:

Now all things of tender birth,

Newly waked from shielded sleep,

Lift their coverlet and peep

Gaily at the world.

Dear Voice,

Sing! and bid each soul rejoice!

Spring's for every breast that wills;

And thy note, O Cuckoo, stills

All the ache of winter here.

Lo! the scattered leaves are sere

Of my sorrow; and I tread them

Into earth. The bough that shed them,

Soon in budded joy shall be

Harmonious with the day's felicity.