Part 1 — TO THE CUCKOO.

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 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, fairy place: That is fit home for thee! William Wordsworth.