Poem of the day-166: To the Cuckoo by William Wordsworth

To the Cuckoo  
By William Wordsworth  

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. 

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