The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth Volume Ii Part 101

For they confound me: as it is, I have forgot those smiles of his. 1807.

For they bewilder me--even now _His_ smiles are lost,--I know not how! 1820.

By those bewildering glances crost In which the light of his is lost. [a] 1827.]

[Variant 9:

1827.

From France across the Ocean came; 1807.]

[Variant 10:

1845.

My Darling, she is not to me What thou art! though I love her well: 1807.

But to my heart she cannot be 1836.]

[Variant 11:

1807.

And I grow happy while I speak, Kiss, kiss me, Baby, thou art good. MS.]

[Variant 12:

1820.

... that quiet face, 1807.]

[Variant 13:

1807.

A Joy, a Comforter thou art; Suns.h.i.+ne and pleasure to my heart; And love and hope and mother's glee, MS.]

[Variant 14:

1807.

My yearnings are allayed by thee, My heaviness is turned to glee. MS.]

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: In a letter to Barron Field (24th Oct. 1828), Wordsworth says that his subst.i.tution of the text of 1827 for that of 1807, was due to the objections of Coleridge.--Ed.]

TO THE CUCKOO

Composed 1802.--Published 1807

[Composed in the Orchard at Town-end, 1804.--I.F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.

O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? [A]

While I am lying on the gra.s.s 5 Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pa.s.s, At once far off, and near. [1]

Though babbling only to the Vale, Of suns.h.i.+ne and of flowers, 10 Thou bringest unto me a tale [2]

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, [3] 15 A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. 20

To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet; 25 Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be 30 An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee!