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Poem by William Wordsworth


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 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.

ќ blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!



William Wordsworth


William Wordsworth's other poems:
  1. Monastery of Old Bangor
  2. Processions
  3. The Wishing-gate
  4. Roman Antiquities
  5. On Revisiting Dunolly Castle


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