FROM yonder hedge, from yonder spray,
He calls me onward and away.
Broad lies the world and fair to see;
The cuckoo calls—is calling me.
I have not seen or heard of Care,
Who used my very bed to share,
Since that first morn, when airily
The cuckoo, calling, called to me.
My sweetheart's face? I have forgot.
My mother? But she calls me not.
From the sweet bank, from the dim lea,
The cuckoo calls—is calling me.
And I must go—I may not choose;
No gain there is, nor aught to lose;
And soon—say, now—on some wild tree,
The bird sits long and waits for me.