Normale Version: The Cuckoo
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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?