"To the Cuckoo"

(Inspired by the style of William Wordsworth)

O bird of spring, so swift and sweet,

Thy voice doth break the silence deep,

From yon green hills, with fluttered feet,

Thou comest, bringing joy to sleep.

When every branch is laced with dew,

And fields, once brown, with grasses new,

Thy call is heard, and all the air

Is filled with life, beyond compare.

Oh, cuckoo, thy song so clear and bold,

Rings through the valley, soft yet cold,

A herald of the waking earth,

A note of spring, a song of birth.

Thy rhythm speaks of skies unclouded,

Of days in warmth and nights unshrouded,

And in thy voice, I hear the sound

Of nature’s pulse, of life unbound.

I know not where thy journey starts,

Nor where thou wanderest with thy heart;

Yet in thy call, I feel the breeze

That sweeps through quiet summer trees,

The whisper of a far-off land,

The softest touch of nature’s hand.

Thy flight is free, untroubled, wide,

A wanderer with no fixed guide.

What secret dost thou know, O bird,

That makes thy song so sweet, so stirred?

The world below doth move so slow,

In winter’s grasp, in cold and snow,

And yet thy wings, with endless flight,

Dost carry thee through day and night.

What unseen hand, what hidden lore,

Keeps thee aloft, to soar, to soar?

Oh, cuckoo, in thy voice I find

The answers to the heart’s own mind.

Thy notes doth speak of freedom true,

A life unmarked by earth’s own hue.

Thy wings do not grow tired, nor weak,

And in thy song, I hear thee speak

Of nature’s will, of love, of lore,

Of peace that waits forevermore.

I wander in the fields alone,

And in thy call, I am not lone.

For thou art with me, all around,

A sacred presence in the sound.

The trees, the streams, the skies above,

All sing in harmony with love,

And in this moment, I am free,

A part of nature’s mystery.

Oh, cuckoo, though thy flight may end,

And seasons change, and skies may bend,

Thy song remains within my heart,

A melody that will not part.

Though winter’s chill may come again,

And darkness fall upon the glen,

Still in thy voice, I shall recall

The warmth of spring, the sunlit call.

And though I know thy days are few,

Thy message, bright, shall still ring true:

That life is more than bound by time,

That all things rise, and all things climb.

Thy song reminds me to be still,

To listen close, to drink my fill

Of all the beauty that surrounds,

In every sound, in every ground.

Thy note is simple, but divine,

A gift from heaven, pure, benign.

And in thy echo, I find peace,

A sweet and timeless, soft release.

O cuckoo, with thy fleeting sound,

Thy song lifts me from earthly ground.

With thee, I soar, though earth I stand,

A part of all the sky and land.

Thy song, thy flight, thy gentle grace,

Shall ever in my heart have place.

For in thy call, I understand

That life’s true joy is not so planned,

But rather found in what may come,

In every season’s steady drum.

O cuckoo, sing, and I shall hear—

Thy voice, thy message, bright and clear.