O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.
Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
The unconquerable pang of despised love.
One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.
In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .