THE cuckoo and the coo-dove’s ceaseless calling, calling,
Of a meaningless monotony is palling
All my morning’s pleasure in the sun-fleck-scattered wood.
May-blossom and blue bird’s-eye flowers falling, falling
In a litter through the elm-tree shade are scrawling
Messages of true-love down the dust of the high-road.
I do not like to hear the gentle grieving, grieving
Of the she-dove in the blossom, still believing
Love will yet again return to her and make all good.
When I know that there must ever be deceiving, deceiving
Of the mournful constant heart, that while she’s weaving
Her woes, her lover woos and sings within another wood.
Oh, boisterous the cuckoo shouts, forestalling, stalling
A progress down the intricate enthralling
By-paths where the wanton-headed flowers doff their hood.
And like a laughter leads me onward, heaving, heaving
A sigh among the shadows, thus retrieving
A decent short regret for that which once was very good.