To the Cuckoo

O sweet and strange, a light undraped, Thy note transforms the air, escaped, In melodies that weave the spring, Among the woods, thy voice takes wing.

With every cry of quirk and cheer, The brook beside me sings sincere, Its laughter joins, the leaves as well, In every corner, it casts its spell.

Thou bright herald, thy calling clear, Where now the earth wakes up from fear, With shadow’s less, and dawn’s fair light, I revel in thy chord, pure delight.

• Dorothy Wordsworth