blithe 7iew-comer I I have heard, 



I hea?' thee and rejoice, 

 c2ickoo I shall I call thee bird, 



Or but a tvandering voice ? 



While I am lying on the grass 



Thy tivo-fold shout I hear; 

 From hill to hill it seems to pass. 



At once far off and near. 



Tlirice welcome, darling of the spring I 



Even yet thou art to me 

 No bird, but an invisible thing — 



A voice, a mystery ; 



* 



The same ivhom in my schoolboy days 



I listened to ; that cry 

 Which made melooh a tliousand luays. 



In bush and tree and shy. 



^' WOKDSWORTH.' 



