Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
	Thy sky is ever clear;
	Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
	No winter in thy year!

John Logan.    

	The merry cuckow, messenger of spring,
	His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded.

Spenser.    

	Oh, could I fly, I’d fly with thee!
	We’d make, with joyful wing,
	Our annual visit o’er the globe,
	Companions of the spring.

John Logan.    

	O blithe newcomer! I have heard,
	I hear thee and rejoice;
	O cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
	Or but a wandering Voice?

Wordsworth.    

	List—’twas the cuckoo—O with what delight
	Heard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint,
	Far off and faint, and melting into air,
	Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again!
	Those louder cries give notice that the bird,
	Although invisible as Echo’s self,
	Is wheeling hitherward.

Wordsworth.