I heard the cuckoo at the evening's close
Trill its low calls from out a bower of blossom,
And, at the sound, a thrill of joy arose
And trembled through my bosom.

A sudden rapture lived in every vein;
My heart leaped up to greet the glad new-comer;
And dreams of childhood danced about my brain
In whispers of the summer!

Could I translate that thrill of joy to men —
To weary struggling souls could I but show it
In sweetness and in tenderness — ah, then
I might be deemed a poet!