O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
Free as a bird to settle where I will.
Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.