THE cuckoo and the coo-dove’s
ceaseless calling,
Calling,
Of a meaningless monotony is palling
All my morning’s pleasure in the
sun-fleck-scattered
wood.
May-blossom and blue bird’s-eye flowers
falling,
Falling
In a litter through the elm-tree shade are scrawling
Messages of true-love down the
dust of the high —
road.
I do not like to hear the gentle
grieving,
Grieving
Of the she-dove in the blossom, still believing
Love will yet again return to
her and make all good.
When I know that there must ever be
deceiving,
Deceiving
Of the mournful constant heart, that while she’s
weaving
Her woes, her lover woos and sings within
another
wood.
Oh, boisterous the cuckoo shouts,
forestalling,
Stalling
A progress down the intricate enthralling
By-paths where the
wanton-headed flowers doff
their
hood.
And like a laughter leads me onward,
heaving,
Heaving
A sigh among the shadows, thus retrieving
A decent short regret for that
which once was very
good.