O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, From hill to hill it seems to pass I hear thee babbling to the vale, 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; O blessed bird! the earth we pace An unsubstantial, fairy place, That is fit home for thee! |