The Cuckoo

Thou indefatigable cuckoo ! still
Thy iteration says the self-same thing,
And thou art still an utterance of the spring
As constant as a self-determined will.
The quiet patience of a murmuring rill
Had no beginning and will have no ending ;
But thou art aye beginning, never blending
With thrush on perch, or lark upon the wing.
Methinks thou art a type of some recluse
Whose notes of adoration never vary :
Who of the gift of speech will make no use
But ever to repeat her Ave Mary. —
Two syllables alone to thee were given,
What mean they in the dialect of heaven ?