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To me, no Babbler with a taleOf sunshine and of flowers,Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the valeOf visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, Barling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo Bird; but an invisible Thing,A voice, a mystery.
The same whom in my School-boy daysI listen'd to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand ways;In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wort still a hope, a love;Still long'd for, never seen!
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