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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - A Cuckoo Song
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Crowns are for kings to wear, sad crowns of gold
 Over tired heads that ache, world--cares untold.
 Not on thy happy brows, sweet bird of summer,
 Set we such crowns to--day, thou Spring`s new--comer.
 Take from us, rather, thou these our wild posies.
 April`s and May`s we bring, June`s with its roses.
 Nay and love`s Cuckoo flowers, O child of glory!
 Cuckoos thine own birds are; these be thy dowry.
 Eve of our heart`s shut field, need is we grieve thee,
 Gone to a world more sweet where we must leave thee.
 Russet--clad nightingales, tired of our chaunting,
 Out in the dark we weep, our Queen--bird wanting.
 Such is the fate of birds. Soon as the Spring comes
 Vagrant they flit and fly. Lo! `tis their King comes.
 Endeth our night plaint only when, through the wild wood,
 New born the day trips in, laughs as a child would.
 O, then we too will laugh, join in the gay chime,
 Run to thy marriage bells, birds of the day--time.
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