Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, And there, along that bank, when I have pass'd A long half-hour together I have stood TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, While I am lying on the grass, From hill to hill it seems to pass, 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! O blessed bird! the earth we pace An unsubstantial, fairy place; A NIGHT-PIECE. THE sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens. But they are silent; still they roll along Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, At length the vision closes; and the mind, YEW-TREES. THERE is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Upcoiling, and inveterately convolved,— Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope, |