William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)

　　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 blessèd Bird! the earth we pace

　　Again appears to be

　　An unsubstantial, faery place;

　　That is fit home for Thee!