O cuckoo! am I of my wits bereft? Or do I hear thee in the hedgerow there? The doves of old Dodona never left Their oak, to babble near a thoroughfare; How shall thy mythic character outlive Thy presence, by thy voice identified? How shall the fells and copses e'er forgive Thy gadding visit to the highway-side? How art thou disenchanted! self-betray'd! Back, foolish bird! return whence thou hast stray'd; A woody distance is thy vantage-ground; Thy song comes sweetest up from Moreham wood; Why notify thy claim to flesh and blood? The Muses know thee as a mystic sound. |