OAK wood, dear oak wood, Green oak wood of mine! Why moaning so early? Low bending thy boughs? From thee, from the oak wood, Have all the birds flown? One bird still lingers, The cuckoo so sad, Day and night singing kookoo, She never is still. Of the wandering falcon The cuckoo complains. He has torn her warm nest, He has scattered her young, Her cuckoolings dear. In her lofty chamber A maiden fair sits; By the window she weeps As a rivulet flows, As a spring wells she sobs. Of the wandering youth The maiden complains, -- From her father and mother He lured her away To a strange far-off home, Strange, far-off, unknown, He has lured her, -- and now Fain would fling her aside. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOW CLOSE THE WINDOWS by ROBERT FROST TO AN UNBORN PAUPER CHILD by THOMAS HARDY POLLY by WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS THE SECOND COMING by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS FIRST LOVE by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS CITY AND VILLAGE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON JERUSALEM; THE EMANATION OF THE GIANT ALBION: CHAPTER 3 by WILLIAM BLAKE THE THREE SAD SHEPPARDESSES, GOE TO A LITTLE TABLE, WHERE THEY SINGE by ELIZABETH BRACKLEY |