Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again—his notes are void of art,
But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.
Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!
To suck once more in every breath, their little souls away,
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth’s bright summer day;
When rushing forth, like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy—
Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!
I’m sadder now—I have had cause; but O I’m proud to think
That each pure joy-fount loved of yore I yet delight to drink;