379. To the Cuckoo

William Wordsworth (1770—1850)

  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 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 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 blesséd Bird! the earth we pace

  Again appears to be

  An unsubstantial, fairy place,

  That is fit home for Thee!