SPRING 43 



gardens toss and spread their petals in the grass. Many a 

 one hears it who will not hear it again, and many that 

 once expected it impatiently hears it no more because he 

 is old and deaf or because his heart is closed. There is 

 not a broad and perfect day of heat and wind and sunshine 

 that is not haunted by that voice seeming to say the earth 

 is hollow under our feet and the sky hollow over our 

 heads. 



There are whole nights when the cuckoo will not sleep, 

 and the woods on either side of a road twenty miles long 

 emit the cry of these conquerors under the full moon and 

 the white stars of love. If you pause it will appear that 

 it is not a silence that this song rules over; for what was 

 a silence was full of sounds, as many sounds as there are 

 leaves, sounds of creeping, gliding, pattering, rustling, 

 slow wormlike continuous noises and sudden sounds. And 

 strangely at length is the glorious day reared high upon 

 the ruins of this night, of which the survivors slink away 

 into the old forgotten roads, the dense woods, the 

 chimneys of deserted houses. 



It is a jolly note only when the bird is visible close 

 at hand and the power of his throat is felt. Often two 

 or three will answer one another, or for half a day will 

 loiter about a coombe for the sake of an echo. It is one of 

 the richest sounds in nature when two sing together, the 

 second note of one being almost blended with the first 

 of the other; and so they continue as if themselves 

 entranced by the harmony, and the navvy leans upon his 

 pick to listen. 



On the day after the great melting of the snow the 



