English poem
William Wordsworth
by William H. Elson (1856–1935)
O blithe newcomer! 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 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 blesséd bird! the earth we pace, Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place, That is fit home for thee!