That cuckoo who sang
on and on last summer—
is it he now,
or another,
calling in a voice unchanged?

Since I heard
Faintly the voice
Of the first wild-goose,
Upon mid sky alone
My thoughts have been fixed.

Orange blossoms that came
with the fifth month—
breathing their scent,
I catch the fragrance of the sleeve
of someone from long ago

On autumn nights
the dew is
colder than ever—
in every clump of grasses
the insects weep

O cuckoo,
Because the villages where you sing
Are so many,
I am estranged from you, even
In the midst of my love!

You are unworthy any man's desires.
I do suspect you of a thousand ills—
For little moths setting your little fires—
Haughty to high, servient to baser wills.
Rank! that the meanest prancer in your train
Can stir with languid love of lure your mood.
Is it your weak pleasure, or his weaker pain,
That gives sweet sustenance in this poor food?
You have seen visions of high luminous dawn
Coming to work a mircle in your heart:—
But now are veils across your watching drawn
Lest faith in viewless wonders plague your art. . . .

I REVERENCE these old masters—men who sung
Or painted, not for love of praise or fame;
Who heeded not the popular eye or tongue,
And craved no present honors for their name;
Who toil'd because they sorrow'd! In their hearts
The secret of their inspiration lay;—
When these were by the oppressor's minions wrung,
The terrible pang to utterance forced its way.
And hence it is, their passionate song imparts,
To him who listens, a like sensible woe,
That moves him much to turn aside and pray
As if his personal grief had present claim;—

All over I'm in Love with Thee,
As Thou all over lovely art;
There's not a Part but pleases Me,
Except thy proud ungentle Heart.

Your Beauty's Light is evident,
Tho' where, or how, we cannot say;
Thus unseen Stars i' th' Ee ment,
United, make the Milky Way.

Whoever loves your Eyes alone,
A kind Look only should be his;
And he, whose Lips but dwell upon
The Praise of Yours, should lose his Kiss.

I love each Charm, each Grace alike,
And to them All give all my Heart:
Love did my Breast too deeply strike,
For Me to know, or name the Dart.

Oh Caledonia, stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! What mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand?
Still as I view each well-known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft,
Sole friends, thy woods and streams were left;
And thus I love them better still,
Even in extremity of ill.
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;

1. That day of wrath, that direful day, Shall
2. How shall poor mortals quake with fears, When
all the world in ashes lay, As David and Sybilla say, As
their impartial judge appears, Who all their causes strictly hears, Who
David and Sybilla say.
all their causes strictly hears.

3. His trumpet sounds a dreadful tone;
The noise through all the graves is blown,
And calls the dead before his throne,
And calls the dead before his throne.

4. O dreadful God! O glorious King!
Who dost the savèd freely bring
To bliss; save me, O mercy's spring,