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O blithe
newcomer! 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 schoolboy
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 birth!
the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An
unsubstantial, fairy place,
That is fit home for
Thee!
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