With the morning's roseate Spirit, Or survey the bright dominions Thine are all the choral fountains Of the untrodden lunar mountains; To Niphate's top invited, For the power of hills is on thee, III. TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, That seems to fill the whole air's space, As loud far off as 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, 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 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! IV. A NIGHT-PIECE. THE sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss |