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.