O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?

From hill to hill it seems to pass
At once far off and near.

I hear thee babbling to the vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
And unto me thou bringest 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 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 bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, fairy place,

That is fit home for thee!

(I speak of one from many singled out)

One of those heavenly days which cannot die;

E