O blithe New-comer! I have heard,

                     I hear thee and rejoice.

                     O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,

                     Or but a wandering Voice?

                     While I am lying on the grass

                     Thy twofold shout I hear,

                     From hill to hill it seems to pass,

                     At once far off, and near.

                     Though babbling only to the Vale,

                     Of sunshine and of flowers,

                     Thou bringest unto me a tale

                     Of visionary hours.

                     Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

                     Even yet thou art to me

                     No bird, but an invisible thing,

                     A voice, a mystery;

                     The same whom in my school-boy days

                     I listened to; that Cry

                     Which made me look a thousand ways

                     In bush, and tree, and sky.

                     To seek thee did I often rove

                     Through woods and on the green;

                     And thou wert still a hope, a love;

                     Still longed for, never seen.

                     And I can listen to thee yet;

                     Can lie upon the plain

                     And listen, till I do beget

                     That golden time again.

                     О blessed Bird! the earth we pace

                     Again appears to be

                     An unsubstantial, faery place;

                     That is fit home for Thee!

                       С восторгом слышу голос твой,

                          Кукушка, гость весны!

                       О, кто ты? — птица, иль пустой

                          Лишь голос с вышины?

                       Я слышу твой двухзвучный стон,

                          Здесь лежа на траве;

                       Вблизи, вдали — повсюду он

                          В воздушной синеве.

                       Долинам весть приносит он

                          О солнце, о цветах,

                       А мне — волшебный сладкий сон

                          О прошлых чудных днях.

                       Пленяй, как некогда, мне слух!

                          Доныне, гость долин,

                       Ты мне не птица; нет, ты дух,

                          Загадка, звук один, —

                       Тот звук, который в прежни дни,

                          Как школьник, я искал,

                       Везде, и в небе, и в тени

                          Дерев, и в недрах скал.

                       Бывало, целый день везде

                          В лесах, лугах брожу;

                       Ищу повсюду, но нигде

                          Тебя не нахожу.

                       Так и теперь я слушать рад

                          Твой крик в лесной тени.

                       Я жду: не придут ли назад

                          Давно минувши дни.

                       И снова кажется мне мир

                          Каким-то царством снов,

                       Куда принесся, как на пир,

                          Ты, вешний гость лесов!

                   She was a Phantom of delight

                   When first she gleamed upon my sight;

                   A lovely Apparition, sent

                   To be a moment's ornament;

                   Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

                   Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

                   But all things else about her drawn

                   From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;

                   A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

                   To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

                   I saw her upon nearer view,

                   A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

                   Her household motions light and free,

                   And steps of virgin-liberty;

                   A countenance in which did meet

                   Sweet records, promises as sweet;

                   A Creature not too bright or good

                   For human nature's daily food;

                   For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

                   Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

                   And now I see with eye serene

                   The very pulse of the machine;

                   A Being breathing thoughtful breath,

                   A Traveller between life and death;

                   The reason firm, the temperate will,

                   Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

                   A perfect Woman, nobly planned,

                   To warn, to comfort, and command;

                   And yet a Spirit still, and bright

                   With something of angelic light.