To
The Cuckoo
~ William Wordsworth
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. |
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. |
Though babbling only to the vale
Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. |
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! |
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; |
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, fairy place,
That is fit
home for Thee!
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