XI - To the Cuckoo

  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,
  I hear thy restless shout:
  From hill to hill it seems to pass,
  About, and all about!
  To me, no Babbler with a tale
  Of sunshine and of flowers,                              10
  Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale
  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.                              20
  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 blessed Bird! the earth we pace
  Again appears to be                                      30
  An unsubstantial, faery place;
  That is fit home for Thee!