To me, no Babbler with a tale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale 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 listen'd to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways; In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove And I can listen to thee yet; 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! 12. TO A BUTTERFLY. I've watch'd you now a full half hour, I know not if you sleep, or feed. More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among And calls you forth again! the trees, This plot of Orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; Stop here whenever you are weary, Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song; And summer days, when we were young, Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now! 13. It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown, Nor Traveller gone from Earth the Heavens to espy! 'Tis Hesperus-there he stands with glittering crown, First admonition that the sun is down! For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by; A few are near him still—and now the sky, He hath it to himself-'tis all his own. O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above, My Soul, an Apparition in the place, Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove! |