The Mockers and other Verses :: :: University of Virginia Library

From winter's edge to summer's sill,
This springtide through, I looked for you,
And listened morn and even, till
Too late at last the long days grew
For hearkening so; now hope must go,
And no cuckoo.

Oh merle and mavis flute and trill
With much ado o'er nestlings new,
And tits and finches finely shrill;
But every throat in all their crew
Might whist, if I should hear thereby
Your cry, cuckoo.

In seasons ere some evil will,
That harms ensue, mine hours did rue,
You would be calling, calling still,
A magic voice unseen, that flew,

And soothsay brought with marvels fraught,
Methought, cuckoo.

So sweet, so strange; as if its thrill
On wild airs blew, that once did woo
Fair speech from high God-haunted hill,
Or secrets of the black doves' coo,
Where oaken shade old twilight made,
Betrayed, cuckoo.

Perchance you deem I take it ill,
And chide you too, that dead years strew,
Life's path, like leaves frore autumns kill,
Nor yet your oracles come true;
But thus, indeed, you would my creed
Misread, cuckoo.

For 'neath yon skies, a-gloom and chill,
Or glowing blue, runs never a clue
To worlds that could your word fulfil;

Enough if, echoing thence, you drew
From distant clime and dateless time
Your one charmed rime, toward happier prime
To chime, cuckoo.