To the Cuckoo

William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice.

A 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, fairy place;

That is fit home for thee!