致布谷鸟

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 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 ; faery place ;
 That is fit home for Thee !