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

 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 schoolboy 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 blessèd Bird! the earth we pace

 Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

 That is fit home for Thee!