Come, if thou'rt cold to Summer's charms,
  Her clouds of green, her starry flowers,
And let this bird, this wandering bird,
  Make his fine wonder yours;
He, hiding in the leaves so green,
  When sampling this fair world of ours,
Cries cuckoo, clear; and like Lot's wife,
I look, though it should cost my life.

When I can hear that charmed one's voice,
  I taste of immortality;
My joy's so great that on my heart
  Doth lie eternity,
As light as any little flower—
  So strong a wonder works in me;
Cuckoo! he cries, and fills my soul
With all that's rich and beautiful.