A Cuckoo Song

CROWNS are for kings to wear, sad crowns of gold

Over tired heads that ache, world-cares untold.
Not on thy happy brows, sweet bird of summer,

Set we such crowns to-day, thou Spring's new-comer.
Take from us, rather, thou these our wild posies.

April's and May's we bring, June's with its roses.
Nay and love's Cuckoo flowers, O child of glory !

Cuckoos thine own birds are ; these be thy dowry.
Eve of our heart's shut field, need is we grieve thee,

Gone to a world more sweet where we must leave thee.
Russet-clad nightingales, tired of our chaunting,
Out in the dark we weep, our Queen-bird wanting.
Such is the fate of birds. Soon as the Spring comes
Vagrant they flit and fly. Lo ! 'tis their King comes.
Endeth our night plaint only when, through the wild wood,
New born the day trips in, laughs as a child would.
O, then we too will laugh, join in the gay chime,
Run to thy marriage bells, birds of the day-time.