Great poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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To the cuckoo by William Wordsworth

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 blessed Bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!

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