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!