A Poet in His Youth, and the Cuckoo-Bird

Once upon a time, I layFast asleep at dawn of day;Windows open to the south,Fancy pouting her sweet mouthTo my ear.She turned a globeIn her slender hand, her robeWas all spangled; and she said,As she sat at my bed's head,"Poet, poet, what, asleep!Look! the ray runs up the steepTo your roof." Then in the goldenEssence of romances olden,Bathed she my entrancéd heart.And she gave a hand to me,Drew me onward, "Come!" said she;And she moved with me apart,Down the lovely vale of Leisure.

Such its name was, I heard say,For some Fairies trooped that way;Common people of the place,Taking their accustomed pleasure,(All the clocks being stopped) to raceDown the slope on palfreys fleet.Bridle bells made tinkling sweet;And they said, "What signifiedFaring home till eventide:There were pies on every shelf,And the bread would bake itself."But for that I cared not, fed,As it were, with angels' bread,Sweet as honey; yet next dayAll foredoomed to melt away;Gone before the sun waxed hot,Melted manna that was not.

Rock-doves' poetry of plaint,Or the starling's courtship quaint,Heart made much of; 'twas a boonWon from silence, and too soonWasted in the ample air:Building rooks far distant were.Scarce at all would speak the rills,And I saw the idle hills,In their amber hazes deep,Fold themselves and go to sleep,Though it was not yet high noon.

Silence? Rather music broughtFrom the spheres! As if a thought,Having taken wings, did flyThrough the reaches of the sky.Silence? No, a sumptuous sighThat had found embodiment,That had come across the deepAfter months of wintry sleep,And with tender heavings wentFloating up the firmament.

"O," I mourned, half slumbering yet,"'Tis the voice of my regret,--Mine!" and I awoke. Full sweetSaffron sunbeams did me greet;And the voice it spake again,Dropped from yon blue cup of lightOr some cloudlet swan's-down whiteOn my soul, that drank full fainThe sharp joy--the sweet pain--Of its clear, right innocent,Unreprovéd discontent.

How it came--where it went--Who can tell? The open blueQuivered with it, and I, too,Trembled. I remembered meOf the springs that used to be,When a dimpled white-haired child,Shy and tender and half wild,In the meadows I had heardSome way off the talking bird,And had felt it marvellous sweet,For it laughed: it did me greet,Calling me: yet, hid awayIn the woods, it would not play.No.

And all the world about,While a man will work or sing,Or a child pluck flowers of spring,Thou wilt scatter music out,Rouse him with thy wandering note,Changeful fancies set afloat,Almost tell with thy clear throat,But not quite,--the wonder-rife,Most sweet riddle, dark and dim,That he searcheth all his life,Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth;And so winnowing of thy wings,Touch and trouble his heart's strings.That a certain music soundethIn that wondrous instrument,With a trembling upward sent,That is reckoned sweet aboveBy the Greatness surnamed Love.

"O, I hear thee in the blue;Would that I might wing it too!O to have what hope hath seen!O to be what might have been!

"O to set my life, sweet bird,To a tune that oft I heardWhen I used to stand aloneListening to the lovely moanOf the swaying pines o'erhead,While, a-gathering of bee-breadFor their living, murmured round,As the pollen dropped to ground,All the nations from the hives;And the little brooding wivesOn each nest, brown dusky things,Sat with gold-dust on their wings.Then beyond (more sweet than all)Talked the tumbling waterfall;And there were, and there were not(As might fall, and form anewBell-hung drops of honey-dew)Echoes of--I know not what;As if some right-joyous elf,While about his own affairs,Whistled softly otherwheres.Nay, as if our mother dear,Wrapped in sun-warm atmosphere,Laughed a little to herself,Laughed a little as she rolled,Thinking on the days of old.

"Ah! there be some hearts, I wis,To which nothing comes amiss.Mine was one. Much secret wealthI was heir to: and by stealth,When the moon was fully grown,And she thought herself alone,I have heard her, ay, right well,Shoot a silver message downTo the unseen sentinelOf a still, snow-thatchéd town.

"Once, awhile ago, I peeredIn the nest where Spring was reared.There, she quivering her fair wings,Flattered March with chirrupings;And they fed her; nights and days,Fed her mouth with much sweet food,And her heart with love and praise,Till the wild thing rose and flewOver woods and water-springs,Shaking off the morning dewIn a rainbow from her wings.

"Once (I will to you confideMore), O once in forest wide,I, benighted, overheardMarvellous mild echoes stirred,And a calling half defined,And an answering from afar;Somewhat talkéd with a star,And the talk was of mankind.

"'Cuckoo, cuckoo!'Float anear in upper blue:Art thou yet a prophet true?Wilt thou say, 'And having seenThings that be, and have not been,Thou art free o' the world, for naughtCan despoil thee of thy thought'?Nay, but make me music yet,Bird, as deep as my regret,For a certain hope hath set,Like a star; and left me heirTo a crying for its light,An aspiring infinite,And a beautiful despair!

"Ah! no more, no more, no moreI shall lie at thy shut door,Mine ideal, my desired,Dreaming thou wilt open it,And step out, thou most admired,By my side to fare, or sit,Quenching hunger and all drouthWith the wit of thy fair mouth,Showing me the wishéd prizeIn the calm of thy dove's eyes,Teaching me the wonder-rifeMajesties of human life,All its fairest possible sum,And the grace of its to come.

"What a difference! Why of lateAll sweet music used to say,'She will come, and with thee stayTo-morrow, man, if not to-day.'Now it murmurs, 'Wait, wait, wait!'"