Sing, cuckoo, sing, Dear herald of the Spring! Minstrels in all ages born, Hearing thee on such a morn —
When the cowslips all around Waft their fragrance from the ground, And the blossom of the pear Quivers white in bluest air —
Such as I, in all the ages Thus have covered rapturous pages With thy praise, O loveliest bird Ear of man has ever heard!
Though thy note be one of sadness, Messenger thou art of gladness Only; for thou comest first When the buds their prison burst,
When, upon an April day, Earth awakes to cast away What remains of wintry sorrow, And to don for summer's morrow
Joyful garb of newest green. Spirit-like thou sing'st, unseen: East and west thy piercing note From the forest seems to float
Over plain and over hill, And thy echoing cries instil Hope into each breath that blows. Who that hears thy voice but knows
That the joys of June are nearing? See the lilies in the clearing, How they raise their green young bells! Every hasty bud that swells
Answers thee in joyfulness; And the winter's long distress, Like a lifted cloud at dawn, Melts and quivers and is gone.
Autumn leaves that strew the ways Have outlived their kindly days: Now the sun shall warm the earth: Now all things of tender birth,
Newly waked from shielded sleep, Lift their coverlet and peep Gaily at the world. Dear Voice,
Sing! and bid each soul rejoice! Spring's for every breast that wills; And thy note, O Cuckoo, stills All the ache of winter here.
Lo! the scattered leaves are sere Of my sorrow; and I tread them Into earth. The bough that shed them, Soon in budded joy shall be
Harmonious with the day's felicity.
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