HIS voice runs before me; I follow, it flies, It is now in the meadow, and now 'mid the skies; So blithesome, so lightsome, now distant, now here, And when he calls Cuckoo, the summer is near. He calls back the roses, red roses that went At the first blast of winter, so sad and forspent, With the dew in their bosoms, young roses and dear, And when he calls Cuckoo, the summer is near. I would twine him a gold cage, but what would he do For his world of the emerald, his bath in the blue, And his wee feathered comrades to make him good cheer? And when he calls Cuckoo, the summer is near. Now, blackbird, give over your harping of gold! Brown thrush and green linnet, your music withhold! The flutes of the forest are silver and clear, But when he calls Cuckoo, the summer is here. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FLORIDA SUNDAY by SIDNEY LANIER SURFACES AND MASKS; 30 by CLARENCE MAJOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: IPPOLIT KONOVALOFF by EDGAR LEE MASTERS A,B,C by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE: 2 by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG by ALEXANDER POPE TICHBORNE'S ELEGY, WRITTEN IN THE TOWER BEFORE HIS EXECUTION by CHIDIOCK TICHBORNE |