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The Cuckoo Post by :slinger147 Category :Poems Author :Laurence Alma-tadema Date :November 2011 Read :1834

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The Cuckoo

Sing, cuckoo, sing,
Dear herald of the Spring!
Minstrels in all ages born,
Hearing thee on such a morn--
When the cowslips all around
Waft their fragrance from the ground,
And the blossom of the pear
Quivers white in bluest air--
Such as I, in all the ages
Thus have covered rapturous pages
With thy praise, O loveliest bird
Ear of man has ever heard!

Though thy note be one of sadness,
Messenger thou art of gladness
Only; for thou comest first
When the buds their prison burst,
When, upon an April day,
Earth awakes to cast away
What remains of wintry sorrow,
And to don for summer's morrow
Joyful garb of newest green.
Spirit-like thou sing'st, unseen:
East and west thy piercing note
From the forest seems to float
Over plain and over hill,
And thy echoing cries instil
Hope into each breath that blows.
Who that hears thy voice but knows
That the joys of June are nearing?
See the lilies in the clearing,
How they raise their green young bells!
Every hasty bud that swells
Answers thee in joyfulness;
And the winter's long distress,
Like a lifted cloud at dawn,
Melts and quivers and is gone.
Autumn leaves that strew the ways
Have outlived their kindly days:
Now the sun shall warm the earth:
Now all things of tender birth,
Newly waked from shielded sleep,
Lift their coverlet and peep
Gaily at the world.

Dear Voice,
Sing! and bid each soul rejoice!
Spring's for every breast that wills;
And thy note, O Cuckoo, stills
All the ache of winter here.
Lo! the scattered leaves are sere
Of my sorrow; and I tread them
Into earth. The bough that shed them,
Soon in budded joy shall be
Harmonious with the day's felicity.

Montmélian, April 1902.


(The end)
Laurence Alma-Tadema's poem: Cuckoo

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